A Sookie Stackhouse Mystery
by randomsquare
Summary: Small town crime reporter, Sookie Stackhouse is left reeling when sleepy Bon Temps faces a crime spree. With a frosty relationship with local law and her boss breathing down her neck, Sookie's quest for the truth will not be easy. Enter a family just this side of crazy, and a possible ally in a local Deputy, Sookie needs all the help she can get AH/AU OOC. T. First-timer here. S/E
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

There had been a murder before dawn. I was awoken at 4am to my phone buzzing on the nightstand to the tune of All Along the Watchtower. A work related text, then. Bleary eyed and none too happy, I opened it. It read simply:

_Shots fired._

_23 Hummingbird Road._

When gunshots are heard, the sane duck for cover and wait until the danger has passed. I drove across town as fast as my rusted pick-up could manage.

Hummingbird Road was a typical lower-middle class street, with rows of off-white shotgun houses set on quarter acre blocks with derelict gardens. I parked a block away, and made my way to the house on foot. It was clear which house was number twenty-three. Though the sun was now threatening to peek over the horizon, it was still dark enough that the streetlights were still on, and in the yellow glow I could see a small crowd was already gathered outside.

The townspeople, roused from their beds by the sound of sirens, had begun to congregate in a loose semi-circle in the street outside the house, jabbering excitedly amongst themselves. No one had bothered to put up any crime scene tape, so a young red-headed Deputy had been dispatched to be in charge of crowd control. Even if his seeming inability to grow a beard hadn't betrayed his inexperience, the expression on his face would have. His mouth was set in a straight line, an attempt at solemn respect, but even at the ungodly hour, his eyes were aglow with excitement. Only to a rookie would a murder seem like a good change of pace.

I took up a position under the dogwood tree in Mrs Fortenberry's yard next door. I could see her chatting animatedly with another officer, waving her large arms about frantically as she described her close brush with death. Mid eye-roll, I realised that I recognised the Deputy, who seemed to be trying to stifle an eye-roll of his own. Eric Northman and I had gone to high school together. Eric hadn't fallen into any of the many traps that befell former athletes stuck in small towns. No teenage marriage, kids, divorce, substance abuse problems, unfortunate haircuts or noticeable personality defects. The lack of major flaws was more than enough to get most of the local single women flocking. It was enough for me to wait for the other shoe to drop. And yet, our personal and professional lives had a habit of crossing over from time to time.

Sheriff Dearborn was the first to exit the house, the sound of the swinging screen door pulling me out of my reverie. I stood up abruptly, brushing myself off while moving closer to get a better look. Pushing sixty, balding, and perpetually angry, the Sheriff wasn't on my list of favourite people. Yet this morning, in the grey light of dawn, he looked positively exhausted and an unconscious pang of sympathy for the man hit me before I realised. He raised his hands and started to motion to the crowd of spectators to move back. From behind him came the coroner, body cart in tow. So, someone had died in there. I tried to inch forward, struck with a sudden morbid impulse to glimpse the corpse. Clearly I wasn't the only one with this desire, because the Sheriff gave another growl.

"Get back you vultures! And if any of you even think about stepping foot on this property I'll have you on trespassing charges faster than you can blink." Involuntarily, I backed away a few feet, eyes still glued to the lump of blue tarpaulin as it progressed towards the ambulance.

"Sookie Stackhouse." A hand came to rest on my shoulder. At the unexpected contact, I gave an involuntary yelp and whirled around to confront the hand's owner.

"Deputy Northman." He flashed a grin at my response. He gripped my shoulder again and steered me a few feet away from the growing throng of curious onlookers.

"You know, I respect the role that the fourth estate plays in a free and democratic society, but you should know, if you expect some kind of statement, I'm really going to need some coffee first."

I bent down for a moment, rummaging through my bag until I pulled out an aged steel thermos.

"Strong. Black. No milk, no cream, no sugar," I recited.

"You remembered!" He clutched his hands to his chest in mock heartfelt astonishment. I rolled my eyes and handed him a steaming cup. He paused a moment to inhale the fumes.

"Mmmm," he purred, before taking a quick sip. He rolled his eyes back in his head in silent ecstasy.

"I thought people only drank black coffee on TV?" I asked.

"What can I say? I'm a purist." I raised an eyebrow.

"It's instant." I said. He just smirked as he took another sip.

At that moment, Sheriff Dearborn moved past us to get to his patrol car. He gave me a less than forgiving look, which I was sure had nothing to do with the fact I hadn't offered him any coffee.

"He hates me," I muttered.

"He really does." The Deputy confirmed. I looked up at him in mock indignation, but I wasn't really surprised. He just shrugged. "It might have something to do with that terrible score you gave his wife's chocolate cake at last year's fair. Or maybe that article you wrote two weeks before the election implying that his second in command-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." I cut him off.

"A man has to have his pride, you know," he gave me a sidelong look.

"Naturally," I muttered and pulled my voice recorder out of my pocket and clicked on the record button.

"So, Deputy Northman, what can you tell me about what happened here?" I asked, all business. His eyebrows raised slightly at the change in my tone.

"Well, _ma'am_," he began, emphasising the title. "What we have here appears to be a violent home invasion, which unfortunately, seems to have ended with our man shot dead."

"The victim?"

"A male. Mid 50s. Lived Alone. Shot twice in the chest at close range with what appears to be a shotgun."

"Was it a burglary or a slaying?" His eyes bulged at the word _slaying_ and he hastened to correct me. He knew me well enough not to repeat the word.

"We believe it was a burglary that went awry. There are signs of forced entry. We aren't sure if anything was taken, but the rooms have been rifled through. There were signs of a struggle."

"And the identity of the deceased, seeing as this is the home of one-" It was his turn to cut me off.

"We won't be sharing the name of the deceased until the family has been notified and the body properly identified. But it does appear the man was attacked in his own home."

"Noted. Any leads?"

"A thorough police investigation is underway, but we do ask any member of the public who might have any information that could shed any light on this morning's events to please call in to the Sheriff's Office. You can remain anonymous." He paused and took a long, deep breath. He looked grave, all traces of humour in his features long gone. He turned to face me.

"Will that be okay?"

"That's fine." He nodded almost imperceptibly. He turned to walk away. Without thinking, I grabbed hold of his arm. He looked at my hand for a second, before turning his eyes to my face. They were very blue, I noticed.

"Thank you, Eric. Really." His lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Anything for the press, Sookie." He winked, before gently removing my hand from his arm before going to rejoin the Sheriff.

Once he was out of earshot, I let out an involuntary sigh. It wouldn't do well, to start feeling sorry for the police.

* * *

The unassuming offices of The Bon Temps Free Press were not exactly frenzied with activity at 6am on a Saturday morning, even in the wake of a murder. The office was tucked discreetly behind the laundromat on 3rd Street, and when I pulled my truck into the small employee parking lot, I wasn't surprised to find it empty. Although we had six employees who worked various schedules, the lot only had two spaces. One was the sole property of our esteemed editor. In front of it there was a cardboard sign tacked to a steel post. It said simply:

_Don't even think about it._

The sign used to be steel as well, but it had the peculiar habit of disappearing in the dead of the night. After it vanished a third time, cardboard was begrudgingly deemed an acceptable substitute. I parked in the adjacent space, the one the rest of us fought over with a kind of fierce pride. I paused briefly on my way into the building and after a quick whip-around look, I pulled the cardboard sign from its designated post before cramming it into my bag and out of sight. Immature? Definitely. Satisfying? Absolutely.

Keys in one hand, coffee cup in the other, I unlocked the door and flicked on the fluorescents, bathing the room in that familiar green hue that I abhorred. It wasn't a big office, because it wasn't a big paper. Bon Temps wasn't a large town and didn't really generate a lot of news, barely enough to fill our weekly edition. The layout of the office was simple enough. There was a tiny reception area with a large unmanned desk with a bell sitting on it. There were two chairs pressed up against the opposite wall, next to a large shelving unit that archived every edition of the paper ever printed. Behind the desk was the news room. My desk was the last one of the three arranged in a row descending to the back of the room. Mine was also the messiest, by a considerable margin, but it held one considerable advantage over the others, it was the only one that wasn't in the direct line of sight of Troy's open office door.

Troy was our editor, he of the much-maligned parking sign. He was the kind of cantankerous, lecherous guy you always secretly wished you'd never get as a boss. He wore his greasy black hair slicked back in a ridiculous pompadour hairstyle that he paired with expensive, garishly loud coloured jackets. He moonlighted as an Elvis impersonator. Or at least, I hoped he did, because the alternative was too sad to think about. Needless to say, his staff despised him. We had long taken to referring to him as "Bubba" behind his back, a title we felt suited our very own ego-maniac, redneck overlord.

Deadline wasn't for another few days, and everyone in town would already know about the shooting by then, so I typed up what I had, hoping to discover something else of interest to add before we went to print on Thursday night. The perpetrator behind bars would make a nice lead story, but I didn't have that much faith in the Renard Parish Sheriff's Department. They weren't like the people on CSI.

Murders weren't all that common in Bon Temps. Any kind of crime was a bit of an anomaly. The kinds of crimes I usually covered were due to an unhealthy mix of excess alcohol and boredom; bar fights that went too far, men beating on their wives, teenagers joyriding in cars that didn't belong to them, that sort of thing. The ordinary problems of small towns. Home burglaries weren't the norm. In a town as small as ours there was always the chance that someone you knew would see you, or notice that whatever new gadget you had been toting around looked suspiciously like the one nabbed of so-and-so's front porch. The town was decidedly middle class, and the people had worked hard for what they owned. If you were caught, you'd be treated a lot worse than if you had beaten on someone. Private property was something that people respected here.

Then there was the motive to consider. Home invasions, according to the few criminology units I took in college, were generally the act of desperate people in need of fast cash. Drug users, mainly. And as far as I knew, Bon Temps wasn't that much of a drug haven. There was a bit of weed floating around, and we all knew who the local dealers were. Scruffy, prematurely old men who worked for the Parish during the week, and stayed home getting baked all weekend long. Some of the kids up at the high school dabbled in steroids, hoping to get the attention of college scouts. Of course, drugs didn't have to be the cause. But if you were tempted to break into someone's house, why would you break into 23 Hummingbird Road?

I knew who had lived there, who I had seen carted away in a body bag earlier that morning, no matter if the police were ready to release the name or not. If he was the homeowner, as Eric had said he was, then his name was Terry Bellfleur. He had been in his 50s. He was divorced, Mrs Bellfleur having run off about fifteen years ago, taking their two kids with her and moving down to Florida to live with her mother. He worked at the hospital as an orderly or janitor of some kind. He was a regular at Yankee Jim's Alligator Bar, perhaps too much of a regular. I'd driven him home once, because we couldn't call anyone to come pick him up. The inside of his house could have best been described as austere, with the bare minimum of functional furniture. Empty beer cans were scattered on the bare floorboards. A well-worn, faux-leather armchair sat in front of a large, aged television, on which I had left him that night, snoring, boots off and covered in an only slightly stained afghan.

The point was, Terry Bellfleur was not a man who had anything worth taking, that hadn't already been taken from him. Until now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

I had almost made it out of the office before I ran into Troy. Almost. I was approaching the exit when suddenly it was filled by his (not inconsiderable) bulk. I could tell that he'd heard about Terry Bellfleur. His eyes were shining, he was breathing hard, his face flushed, and he was sweating. Profusely. I took an automatic step back, leaning on the nearest desk, while trying not to breathe.

He still stood in the doorway, gasping for breath. I was briefly reminded of a puffer fish suffocating to death on the rocks. I shook my head slightly, trying to remove the image.

"So I take it you heard about Terry?" I asked, using his incapacitation to make my opening. He sucked down a few more breaths.

"You bet your ass I heard! Shot through the heart. The heart!" he was almost giddy with excitement.

"Been talking to the coroner I see. Shouldn't he have waited until after he'd finished the report?" I asked, feigning ignorance, while really just being bitchy. Troy gave me a hard look.

"Jealous?" he asked, an eyebrow raised, his lips set in a smug grin that I wanted to smack off his face.

"That your brother-in-law shared a gruesome, unprintable detail with you before he'd even got a chance to report it to the authorities? While I'm as impressed with your sources as ever, I'm not entirely sure what we can do with that information."

He gave me a withering look. "So what did you get? The official line? Dearborn spouting the expected "Keep Calm and Carry On" crap?"

"Northman gave me the official line."

"Not Dearborn?" I stifled an exasperated sigh.

"No. Not Dearborn."

He took a step towards me, his jaw set in a straight line.

"This is the biggest story this paper has seen in years." He looked directly into my eyes. The desired effect was not lost on me.

"I'm aware." I kept my eyes on his.

"This is the biggest _crime _that this paper has seen in years. And my _only _crime reporter can't even get a word in with the Sheriff of a backwoods hick town about the biggest thing to happen in his newest term? _This_ is what you are telling me?" I ended our staring game. There was no winning this one, at least, not if I want to keep my job. I focused my attention instead on the stack of papers sitting on the desk beside me.

"You know why he won't talk to me." I said softly.

"Yes, I do. I _also_ know I can't have you fucking this up." I glanced back at him sharply.

"So that's the way it is," I said, unable to keep the rising anger out of my voice.

"That's the way it is." He glared defiantly right back at me, as if daring for me to argue. "I'm taking point on this."

I know my mouth was hanging open. I hastened to close it before his look of smug satisfaction could set.

"So what is your _only _crime reporter going to be doing when the biggest crime to happen in years is being covered by _yourself_?" I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

"Kennedy is out sick this weekend. Well, she's in Mexico with that new lothario of hers, but the official line is Flu." He chuckled briefly before returning his attention to me. My stomach started to sink. "We need someone to cover Social. Church fetes. Double weddings. Fucking Bingo nights. If the good people of Bon Temps are gathered, you will be there. Because you are a team player. Right?"

I used up all my allowable moments of hesitation before I answered. "Yes, sir!" I said with all the forced enthusiasm I could muster.

Apparently the sarcasm still soaked through, because I get yet another sharp look. I figured that it is time to get out of there before things descended to hair-pulling and name-calling, and fast.

"I'll be back in Tuesday with all the requisite smiling faces and syrupy lines on perfect occasions than you can handle. Northman's statement is already on the system." I said as I bypassed Troy to reach the door.

"Oh, Sookie. One more thing."

I half-turned in the doorway, reluctant to extend this disastrous little pow-wow any longer.

"Did you see what happened to my sign?"

I shrugged my shoulders, "No sir. Probably kids again." I turned and started towards my car in the lot. In spite of everything, I couldn't prevent the vindictive smile from spreading across my face.

* * *

Yankee Jim's Alligator Bar was tucked away on the edge of town, just off the interstate. It was the kind of place that tourists make a point of stopping at, pausing their overloaded SUV's long enough to grab a burger and snap a photo or two of themselves in compromising positions with a stuffed alligator before heading south to the swamps. This activity didn't seem to deter the locals any, considering the number of daytime drunks holding court when I wandered in a little after one.

A few attempted a smile when they saw me, but most were too busy staring into the bottom of their glasses as I passed. One stool at the bar, the third from the left, had been left conspicuously vacant. A small tribute to the passing of one of their own. I dropped my bag on a table closest to the corner, and headed to the jukebox, which was playing a whiny love ballad that could only be the product of Nashville. That wouldn't do. When the song reached a quiet moment, I quickly flicked the wall outlet switch, clearing the display, before inserting a quarter and making my own selection, which began immediately.

"I saw that," a gravelly voice interrupted the familiar guitar riff.

I glanced to my left, a smile inching its way across my face. Sitting two tables away, eyes crinkled into a devious smile, was Yankee Jim himself.

"You are the one who taught me that trick," I reminded him. He chuckled to himself, before pulling himself up and making his way over to me. His tall, thin frame enveloped me in a big, warm hug, his grey whiskers scratching my cheek when he ghosted a kiss there. The reek of fish clung to him. He'd been gutting something, and recently, but the familiar scent was comforting so I allowed myself to relax into him.

"Did you see Terry?" He asked, pulling away from me slightly. His steel blue eyes, full of mirth seconds ago, now matched the sombre tone of his patrons. I nodded slightly.

"I was there when they brought out the uh," the word _body bag _entered my mind but I quickly discarded it, "when they wheeled him out," I corrected. "He was covered over, but Eric told me what happened to him."

"Mrs Fortenberry called about 8. Woke your father up. I think this is the most exciting thing to ever happen to her. Stupid old bat." He shook his head. "Do you know if his family heard yet?"

I debated telling him that I'd been demoted, and no longer on the case, but I couldn't bring myself to say the words.

"I'm sure they know by now."

"Eric was there, you say?" he asked, his voice raised slightly, a trace of amusement returning.

"Yeah. He _is_ a Deputy."

"I like him." He smiled at me knowingly. I couldn't suppress a snort. Of course he did.

"I know you do," I said. "Everyone does."

"Almost everyone," he replied, considering me for a moment longer than I was comfortable with. He broke the tension by cupping a calloused hand to my cheek and giving me a quick once-over. "You are tired. I'm going to put on a pot of coffee."

"Thanks Grandaddy." I hugged him again quickly, before he withdrew to the kitchen.

I returned to my table, pulling out a copy of last week's Free Press. The list of social events for the next week occupied two full pages, and I scanned them quickly_. __**Saturday**__. Bass Fishing Tournament. Bootscooting Semi Finals. __**Sunday**__. Bluegrass Music Festival. Renard Parish Flower Show. _ I laid my head down on the table, then began to bash it back on the table repeatedly, silently cursing my life.

"Bad day?" A voice pulled me from my self-pity ten minutes later. I looked up to see my Dad, holding a cappuccino and a careful smile.

"You could say that," I agreed, taking the cup from his hands.

"Just Terry?" He asked, taking the seat opposite me.

"I'm fine. If you have to get back to the bar-"

"Your grandfather has it."

I chanced a glance at the bar where Yankee Jim was regaling two tourists in flip flops and sunhats with tall tales of suitably swampy adventures. He was using our ornamental stuffed alligator, affectionately named Betsy, as a visual aid, and they seemed to be engaged in a match to the death.

"He sure does," I laughed. Dad gave me a brief genuine smile, the kind that made the corner of his eyes crinkle just like Grandaddy's. I hadn't seen that in a while.

"I just got some undesirable work assignments." I said, returning to the original line of questioning. "Troy is punishing me for alienating the local law enforcement. That's all."

I took a sip out of my mug as I watched my father consider me carefully.

"You know you don't have to-" I cut him off before he could continue.

"If you are going to say what I think you are, you can forget it." I placed my mug down on the table and crossed my arms defiantly, to emphasise this point.

"I'm not leaving. You can't get rid of me that easily. Troy might be a jerk, but I like my job. I know this town. I know how it works. I can write better stories here than I can in some basement job in a city, where I'd be stuck writing about parking meters for five years before I'd even get onto a crime beat."

He went to say something else, but I interrupted again. " Besides, you need me to help keep an eye on Grandaddy," I winked, motioning at the bar, where Yankee Jim was now rolling on the floor with Betsy, a hoard of delighted tourists snapping photos.

My father nodded, a wistful look on his face. "I just don't want you to have any regrets." I took his hand from across the table and gave it a light squeeze.

"Coming home was the best decision I could have made. I know I screwed up at first, but I'm going to make this work. Don't worry about me. The world isn't going anywhere." I paused to consider this. "Well, maybe to hell in a hand basket. But that could only help my career at this point," I grinned. He squeezed my hand back briefly, before withdrawing it as he turned to see another group of tourists, clad in identical, loud Hawaiian shirts walk in. I took that as my cue to leave.

"Well the excitement of the Bootscooting Semi Final waits for no one!" I announced, draining my cup and rising to feet. My father placed a quick kiss on my forehead before heading back behind the bar. A quick wave to my grandaddy, and I was back in my truck, headed back to town.

* * *

It was barely past noon on Sunday, and was already regretting my decision to wear a skirt suit. The idea that I could get away with looking glamorously professional in front of the town's society wives became increasingly laughable as the mercury rose above 90 degrees for the first time in months. My hair was sticking to my face, and I had a sneaking suspicion that my makeup was running. I could feel my cheeks growing warm, but I wasn't sure whether that was down to the heat, or the fact that I'd developed a fondness for the complimentary mint juleps.

The Parish Flower Show was simply an excuse for the moneyed set to congregate on the mayor's lawn, gossiping about home renovations and time shares on condos in Florida, and whatever else the upper classes care about. These conversations did nothing to deter my drinking. I was hiding in the shade of the mayor's gazebo, glass in hand, when I saw her approach. Shiny blonde hair, perfectly fluffed. Acrylic talons, expertly manicured. A skirt suit of her own, pink of course. No visible sign of perspiration. That alone was enough to make me hate her.

Caroline Bellfleur was my age. When we were kids, we used to be friends. We spent our summers together down by the lake, tearing around like loons, hopped up on too much sugar. When my Mom was having problems, I'd stay over at her house, sometimes for weeks at a time. She grew up to be a debutante. I grew up to be me. We fell out long before I managed to almost ruin her family.

As she drew close, flagged by two similarly perfectly-coiffed cronies, I briefly contemplated a tactical retreat. A quick glance at my surroundings let me know it is useless. The only way out of this gazebo was through her. I downed my last drink and steeled my jaw in preparation for the onslaught.

"Sarah!" She squealed in that phoney southern belle way that she had about her. She gave me an air kiss. Both cheeks. I just stood there. My name wasn't Sarah and I don't air kiss.

"Caroline!" I made an attempt at civility, raising my shoulders like this was an unexpected, yet pleasant surprise.

"It's just Carrie, now," she corrected me airily. I took a breath. Civility. Decorum. Professionalism. I glanced at her perfectly straight white teeth forming into another faux smile. Screw it.

"In that case, I am not, nor have I ever been called Sarah, a little fact to which you have been privy since kindergarten." I said, putting on my best attempt at a fake smile. Hers wavered slightly.

"Yes, of course. How could I forget the name attached to that article last spring!" Her smile was still in place, but there was a vindictive flash in her eyes. She turned to her nearest sorority-sister clone. "_Sookie_ here is the one got my Daddy fired." In an instant, all three faces turned to me, eyes narrowed, simpering smiles long gone.

Then came the sound of my salvation. _All Along The Watchtower_. I scrambled to pull the phone from my jacket pocket. The unexpected interruption had broken the enemy ranks. "Nice seeing you, Caroline," I patted her shoulder as I slipped my way between them. "I see a life of privilege agrees with you." I was half way to my truck before I took the call.

"Sookie Stackhouse, intrepid girl reporter." I answered, having looked at the caller ID.

"Good. You'll need that sense of humour. I have another murder for you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Gentlemen" I said, as I took my place in the circle of men in uniform standing on the side of road. No one immediately responded. Two men were kneeling down to examine something on the ground. I looked down and immediately understand what it was that had so caught their attention.

It was blood. A lot of blood. It lay in a puddle a few feet in diameter, congealing black against the asphalt in the afternoon sun. An involuntary gasp escaped my lips and I stumbled backwards a few steps. All of a sudden the tinny smell of blood invaded my nostrils and settled in the back of my throat, making my stomach lurch. I made it to the tree line before I threw up. Just.

* * *

"Sookie Stackhouse. I have to say, I picked you for having a stronger stomach." I wanted to die. I was sitting in the driver's seat of my truck, searching for a stray bottle of water to rinse my mouth out with, when he approached. In light of his opening line, I merely shrugged, not pausing in my search. Paydirt. Under the passenger seat I found a quarter-full bottle of water, of questionable age and hot to the touch. I swilled some of the vile tasting liquid around my mouth before getting out and unceremoniously spitting it near my back tire, then cleaned myself up with a ready-wipe. Only then did I squint up to meet his eyes.

"Deputy Northman." I breathed. "My apologies for contaminating your crime scene." My eyes were watery from my earlier upchuck, so it took a few moments for his face to come into focus. His face was not the one of cocky judgement that I expected. There was a flash of amusement in his eyes, but the rest of his features were tense, drawn.

"You weren't the only one," he admitted, motioning his thumb towards the redheaded officer I saw looking so eager outside of Terry's house. He didn't look quite so eager now, his coltish face extremely pale, large droplets of sweat trickling down his forehead. He was standing a few feet away, trying to make notes in a small leather notebook, his hand shaking as he wrote.

"He's a good kid. Just a little green."

I watched the youngster wipe the sweat from his brow, and pause to steady his hand before resuming his notes. This tiny action, minute evidence of mind over matter, broke my heart a little bit.

"He's going to be a good cop," I whispered without meaning to.

I glanced across to see Eric eyeing me with an unreadable expression.

"What?" I asked, my face growing hot, wishing he would steer his gaze elsewhere.

"Have you been drinking?" he asked unexpectedly.

"What? No!" I protested a little too quickly and a little too loudly.

He took a step towards me, leaned his face towards mine and inhaled slightly. It seemed like an intensely personal action, and I felt my blush intensify.

"Mint Julep?" He asked, taking a step back, one eyebrow raised in silent triumph.

I considered denying it, but nodded my head resignedly.

"How many?" I made a three with my fingers, then momentarily faltered. It had been more than that. So how many? And how many was _too many?_

Noticing my confusion, Eric held his hand out. I just stared at his outstretched palm, not getting it.

"Your keys," he explained, as if speaking to a child.

"No way!" I argued hotly, having seemingly regained my capacity for speech.

"I have a breath test kit sitting in my cruiser." His tone was even, but the threat was self-evident.

I pulled my keys out of my jacket pocket, and placed them in his open hand. His fingers clasped around the metal on contact, and he nodded his head slightly in approval. The reality of my situation suddenly hit me.

"I can't leave my truck out here. We are at least ten miles from town!" I began to protest. He considered this for a moment, and I allowed myself to hope that I'd get my way.

"Kevin!" he called. The young Deputy turned around. Eric fished his own keys out of his pocket and threw them to the boy. To his credit, he caught them without blinking.

"I'm driving Miss Stackhouse home. Take the cruiser back to town, and pick me up outside Yankee Jim's in a half hour, got it?" The boy's face broke out into a broad grin, his glee at getting to be behind the wheel, finally, unabashed.

"Sure thing, man! I'll take real good care of her."

Eric turned back to me, his smug grin almost too much to bear.

I let out the loudest, most exasperated sigh that I could manage, circumnavigating the truck in a few purposeful steps, climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door harder than was strictly necessary. I heard him chuckle to himself before climbing in the driver's side.

* * *

We were half way back to town before my haze of anger dissipated and I remembered that my being at the side of the road, in the middle of the nowhere, hadn't been any accident.

"So who was it?" Eric lifted a quizzical brow.

I let my annoyance creep into my voice, though I'm wasn't sure if I was angrier at him or myself for letting myself get so distracted.

"You said that there was a murder. And there was a big pool of blood. So who was murdered?"

Eric waited a few seconds before responding, his eyes still on the road.

"We don't know."

"A John Doe?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

"No." He shook his head vehemently, his eyes briefly meeting mine. "There wasn't a body."

I needed a minute to digest this.

"What do you mean there wasn't a body? You said it was a murder. So there has to be a body. And the blood, it belongs to someone!"

"There was no body. Just the blood."

"How do you know it's human?"

"Call it a hunch. We sent a sample to the lab in Shreveport to be sure."

"And yet you called me and told me there was a murder!?"

Eric swore and pulled to the side of the road. The truck lurched to an abrupt halt. I was about to scold him on the state of my tires when I caught the look in his eyes.

"Look!" He said, his words traced with an anger that I'd never heard from him. "That pool of blood we found? We estimate it is about five pints worth . The average human can only stand to lose about four before they die. If anything lost that amount of blood in that spot, it would still be there. _Dead._ Whatever it was, it has been moved. If someone shot at a deer or a razorback, it stands to reason that it could have bled out right there and then they could have taken it with them. But who hunts that close to a road? Smaller animals wouldn't have bled as much, and no one would bother to move them. If you kill something on the side of the road, leaving that much blood, then you've shot it or severed an artery. No one hunts using knives. Or close to the road. So my guess is going to be that it is human. We've already contacted every hospital in the district. No one has been brought in someone with massive blood loss, dead or alive. So that has me thinking _murder_, and they took the body with them." He paused to get his breath back.

"Of course, if it turns out the blood _isn't _human, then I can close my case and be satisfied that the citizens of this parish aren't _completely_ bent on killing one another. But in the meantime I wanted to be ready to act, in case there is a murderer out there, preparing to dispose of a body. And I thought _maybe_, with your knowing all this town's dirty secrets, you might have a few locations in mind for where to start looking." His expression was cold, stony even, when he faced forward again and started the engine.

The rest of the trip was suffered in silence. I wanted to say something. Anything. But the right words weren't readily available. For someone who gets paid by the word, I considered it a personal failure. The atmosphere eating at me, I pulled out my notebook and began making notes.

When we arrived in the shaded parking lot of Yankee Jim's Alligator Bar, Eric pulled into my usual spot next to Grandaddy's rusted out boat, and cut the engine.

The tension in the cab had eased somewhat, and when Eric turned to face me again, the look was apologetic rather than venomous.

"I'm sorry," he said, searching my face for signs of upset. I waited for him to continue. "You had the right to ask those questions. I _am_ the one who called you." He took a deep breath. "It's just these cases. I'm sick of being questioned every time I have a theory. Just because I haven't passed my detective's exam yet, everyone assumes I don't know what I'm talking about. Even when they, themselves have nothing to offer. It gripes me. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

I considered this for a few moments.

"Thanks for driving me home. I won't try to drink and drive again." I motioned to climb out of the cab.

"Sookie," his voice was almost pleading. I paused.

"Oh, before I forget," I pulled out my notebook again and ripped out a page, folding it in half before handing it to him.

"What's this?"

"A list of potential body dumping grounds in and around Bon Temps." I smiled, catching him unawares."And Eric?"

"Yeah?" he asked, still looking slightly stunned.

"Get out of my truck and give me my keys back already." He gave me a wicked grin, before pulling the keys from the ignition and placing them flat in the palm of my hand. We stepped out of the cab, and glanced at each other from across the hood.

"You'll let me know if it's human, won't you?" I asked.

"I will. And you will refrain from telling your editor about this until after you get that particular call?"

"I will." He nodded, scuffing the gravel with his feet, gazing into the trees behind me.

"Oh, for goodness sake! Come inside and ask Yankee Jim about Terry or something until your ride gets here. It's bad for business having a lawman loitering in the parking lot." He seemed surprised at my suggestion, but took it.

"After you," he made a sweeping gesture with his arms. I snorted at the gentlemanly display, but went ahead of him anyway.

My grandfather was wiping glasses behind the bar when I made my entrance. He brightened visibly when Eric stepped in behind me, so I shot him a death glare as we approached. If anything, his grin grew even larger.

"Hi Granddaddy," I offered a conciliatory smile. He leant across the bar to give my cheek a whiskery kiss. "You really need to shave," I teased, rubbing the spot he just kissed. He just winked at me before turning his attention to Eric.

"What did I tell you about bringing home strays, Sookie? You can't keep him." He looked Eric up and down, eyes crinkling with mischief. I gave my grandfather a light punch in the shoulder, and to my surprise, it was Eric who chuckled at this.

"Can I stay upstairs tonight?" I tried to make myself as doe-eyed as I could.

"Can't sleep without a jukebox playing in the background? I can get you one for your new apartment," Yankee Jim teased. I shot him a look. "Of course you can. The room is yours until this bar burns to the ground, which is becoming a more likely scenario with that new cook I hired. If I hadn't checked the references myself I could've sworn that he'd never been in a kitchen before." He levelled us both with a very conspiratorial expression. "I'd avoid the catfish." I couldn't help letting out a giggle. Both Yankee Jim and Eric turned to me with identical expressions of shock. I didn't giggle. Usually. Damn Mint Juleps. I rushed to fill the shocked silence.

"Deputy Northman would like to ask you a few perfunctory questions pertaining to his investigation," I gave Eric a sharp look. It was one that said _Tell my grandfather that I was drinking and driving and I will stop at nothing to destroy you. _He seemed to grasp my subtext. He gave me a slight nod.

"If you have a moment, sir," Eric smiled apologetically.

"For an officer of the law, I am at your leisure," Yankee Jim bowed dramatically, before motioning to the other bartender that he was taking a break.

"Well you kids have fun." I said, inching away from the bar. My grandfather gave me a short wave, his attentions now almost exclusively on the Deputy. Eric paused to meet my eyes.

"It was a pleasure as always, Miss Stackhouse."

"Ah, likewise, Deputy. And you will call me if there are any, ah, _developments_." I received a solemn nod in return. Encouraged, I made my escape upstairs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Authors Note: Hey. I've never written a story for anyone to read before. Not gonna lie, kinda nervous about sending this one out into the world. I've 7 chapters already written, so I will be drip-feeding you them over the next day or so. Any updates after that will be rather slower, because I fancy myself a busy person. As I am new at this, reviews are so very welcome. To those who have reviewed and followed so far, YOU ARE SO AWESOME, I hope you like where I am going, and thank you for spending some time out of your day to look at something I wrote. **

**Chapter Four**

It was Monday, 10am. I was sitting at my desk clutching my fourth cup of coffee for the day, waiting. A call. A text. Something. But my phone lay on the desk top, resolutely silent. I stared it down, willing it to ring.

"You are jinxing it." A sweet, pretty voice lifted me from the fog of my thoughts.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, glancing up at Kennedy, who had perched herself on the edge of my desk, fanning herself with a copy of last week's edition. She seemed to have adequately recovered from her recent bout of flu, sporting a new tan with what appeared to be hickeys peeking out from under the collar of her blouse.

"Oh, honey, they never call when they say they will." She patted me on the shoulder as if delivering terrible news. It took me a moment to work out how she had interpreted this scene.

"It's a lead."

She shrugged. "Same principle."

Kennedy was the kind of girl who had a lot of experience waiting for phone calls. She was what my grandfather would call, in a whispered tone, _a few pickles short of a jar._ She was blonde, she was pretty, she was sweet, and so far, my suspicions had left me to conclude she was completely gullible, especially when it came to men. For a long time I suspected that her whole southern belle thing was an act, that it was all some kind of an elaborate honey trap, designed to ensnare some rich cotton farmer or the like. Yet after much observation I had to accept the truth. She really was just annoyingly likeable, if a bit dim. It made her a hit with the local guys, naturally. And perfect for her role compiling the social pages.

"So I heard you ran into that awful Carrie Bellfleur at the Mayor's Flower Show."

I gaped at her.

"How did you hear that?" As soon as I asked, I felt like an idiot for doing so. She was the Queen Bee of Northern Louisiana, she knew everything. _Hell_, it was her job to know.

"I also heard that after you saw her, you neglected to show up at the Bluegrass Music Festival in Clarice. Could there be a connection? Hmmm?" Her hand was back on my shoulder, a look of friendly concern on her face. The gesture was so annoyingly sincere.

"No, I mean, yeah, I saw her, but it was fine. And then I was called away for another story. I didn't go home and cry after running into a few ill-tempered sorority sisters. I swear!" I crossed my hand over my heart. She raised an eyebrow that lets me know she didn't quite believe me. I shook off her hand and reached into my desk drawer for my camera.

"I was going to file them myself, but since you are back from your uhhh... flu, I figure you'd want what I got this weekend?" She nodded. I handed her the SD card out of the camera and a pad full of notes.

"You are right in that I didn't get down to Clarice. And I'm really sorry about that. But there is still the Bootscooting, the Bass Fishing Tournament, and of course, the Flower Show. You are still covering the Ladies Luncheon tomorrow, so that should be enough in time for deadline, right?"

"Honey, it's more than enough," She reassured me. "The last time someone covered for me, Arlene spent the whole weekend on one of those casino ships off Brunswick, photographing her friends getting drunk and shooting Craps. I had to convince Daddy to buy three whole page ads, because I couldn't use any of it!" Kennedy's father, the famously humorless Mr Harvey, sold appliances in a store off the Church Square. I guess I'd lack humor too, if I had to peddle toasters for a living.

"So, what's this _other_ story then? It isn't Terry is it? Poor guy. Although I heard Bubba was taking that, so that he could pretend to be important for a week." Occasionally, Kennedy could be rather perceptive. And of course, she hated Troy just as much as the rest of us.

"Uh, yeah, he did. But there are almost other crimes. Bar fights, graffiti outside the high school gym, someone stole the blue gnome out of Mrs Fortenberry's garden." I smiled.

"Fine, you don't have to tell me." She stood up straight, smoothing her skirt and straightening her blouse. "Lord knows, I have plenty of my own secrets." She smiled serenely, patting her collar absently as she took her leave. I felt slightly sickened.

* * *

The phone stayed resolutely silent for the next few hours. I decided to dash home and change clothes before I was expected at the courthouse later in the afternoon.

Home, when I wasn't crashing in my old childhood bedroom above the bar, was a tiny ground floor apartment in Magnolia Gardens, Bon Temps's only apartment complex, so-named because of the half-dead Magnolia tree that stood resolutely outside in the parking lot. With its cheap rent and ugly 1970's decor, its primary function was that of a kind of halfway house for Bon Temp's tragically unwed, recently dumped or recently released. I was, of course, one of the former.

My apartment was cramped, ugly and decidedly beige. But it didn't have glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the bedroom ceiling, and it wasn't across the hall from two generations of Stackhouse men, who snored like truckers. Plus there was just enough room for all of my books, which had been languishing in boxes since before I had left for college.

Carefully stepping over the mess I had left the morning before, I made my way into the bedroom. The room was tiny, most of the available space taken up by my unmade double bed, a pile of books acting as a night stand, and my wardrobe. My grandfather's voice rattling in my head, I made my bed and then began rustling through the wardrobe, looking for my only other skirt suit, a navy blue number which cost more than anything else I owned, including my truck. I laid it out on the bed and went to take a shower. The old pipes made a lovely clanking noise, and then a stream of rust coloured water shot out. Eventually it turned clear enough to risk exposure, and I was blessed with a few minutes of hot water before it ran out.

I changed into the suit, and blow-dried myself into a court-ready state. I turned on my coffee maker for what was to be my sixth cup of the day, nuked a slice of cold pizza I found in the fridge and was just about to take a seat at the beige formica table in my beige kitchen when someone knocked on my door.

I never got visitors. Grandaddy and Dad were too busy with the bar to ever make social calls, and I had no friends to speak of, having successfully alienated everyone I had grown up with. With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I assumed it must be Bill, the maintenance guy. Lecherous in the extreme, Bill was a nightmare in blue overalls. He never really fixed anything, he just drank a lot of my coffee, sighed loudly for no apparent reason and spent a lot of time ogling my chest. In a word, _creepy_. I never called maintenance any more. The door didn't have a peephole for me to test this theory, tenant security was so clearly not on the agenda of whoever constructed this fleapit, so there was only one way to find out. I swung the door open a little, but it wasn't Bill's face I found myself staring at, mystified.


	5. Chapter 5

**For Perfecta999 and the vikings kittykat, who made my day with their reviews. I hope you like this one. **

**Chapter Five**

"Eric. Uh, hi." I said, my mind still reeling at this unexpected intrusion. I propped open the door further, to get a proper look at him. He was in uniform, but looking a bit dishevelled, as if he had slept in it. He looked tired, his face grey and unshaven, his eyes a little glazed.

"Hi." He said quietly, running his fingers through his hair in an apparent sign of stress.

We just stared at each other for a minute until I reminded myself that I was a good southern girl.

"Would you like to come in?" I offered, gesturing awkwardly.

He simply nodded and followed me inside. The whole apartment smelt of freshly brewed coffee, and I heard him make a low moan as he breathed it in. I recognised a fellow caffeine addict when I saw one.

"I'll get you a cup," I said. "You look like you could use it." I busied myself with our drinks, and when I turned back around he was sitting at my table. It only had one chair, so he had upturned one of the moving crates I'd had stacked against the wall, to use as a seat. He'd left the chair for me. My grandfather's voice in my head whispered something about gentlemen, but I shooed it away.

I placed the coffees down and sat down across from him, hands gripping my too-hot mug until it became too uncomfortable, and then I placed them on my knees, where I picked at my tights, anxiously. I watched him consume his coffee like a man dying of thirst. It was gone in seconds, the temperature apparently of little consequence. I poured another cup and slid it towards him. He nodded gratefully, drinking this one a fraction slower. He still didn't say anything, but his skin was losing some of that grey pallor.

"Are you okay? I mean, you don't seem okay."

He drained the cup, and set it down gently before placing his forehead on the cool tabletop and breathing deeply.

"Eric. Should I be worried?"

He glanced up then, as if seeing me for the first time that afternoon.

"You look nice."

"Uh, thanks. I have court. You look like shit. What is going on?" He ran his fingers through his hair again, but remained silent. I was losing patience with this.

"Eric, you really need to tell me what is going on."

"I shot someone."

Well I hadn't been expecting that. A small strangled noise escaped my throat before I could stop it.

"Oh. In the line of duty?" He nodded before putting his forehead back on the table.

I went over sink, and opened the cupboard there. I extracted a half-full bottle of Jacks and two musty shot glasses. I blew the dust from them and placed them on the table. He looked up, studying this development with apparent interest. I poured two shots and pushed one towards him. He eyed me for a moment before grabbing it and draining it in one gulp. I pushed the other towards him. It was also, in a moment, gone.

"Want to talk about it?" I asked gingerly. I know, the first line in _Comforting Distraught Cops for Dummies. _At least I didn't feel comfortable patting him on the back and telling him it would be all right.

His forehead was back on the table.

"No," he mumbled.

I poured myself a shot. The sting of it hitting the back of my throat awoke me to myself.

"Eric. I have to go to court."

He looked up at me again, but he didn't seem to be really seeing me.

"Did you want to stay? I'm kind of worried about you right now, I don't think you should be wandering about." He closed his eyes, and nodded with effort.

"Here," I said, as I pulled him up by his elbow. He stood, a little unsteadily, and I knew it wasn't from the alcohol. I didn't have a couch, so I led him into my bedroom, now glad that I had bothered to make the bed. He collapsed onto it without any word from me, and moaned into the pillows. I grabbed his foot, and he flinched at first, before he realised what I was doing. I untied his combat boots, one foot at a time and slipped them off, letting them fall to the floor with a clatter. He made no reaction to the noise. I considered unclipping his belt, but thought that might be a step too far. He didn't seem to be carrying a gun, at least. I assumed it had been confiscated in the aftermath of this mysterious shooting. I bent over him to see if he had actually passed out. All indicators pointed to yes. Emboldened, I brushed his blonde hair from his face, feeling his forehead in the process. It felt feverish, warm and damp to the touch. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water and some aspirin, and left them by the bed. As an afterthought, I grabbed what was left of the bottle of Jacks and left it there too.

I scribbled a note saying he could let himself out if he woke, and slipped it under the bottle.

Grabbing my messenger bag, a determined beeping coming from the kitchen reminded me of my forgotten slice of pizza, still sitting in the microwave. It was lukewarm, but I stuffed it into my mouth anyway. Taking my keys off the hook, I considered the implications of locking a strange man in my house. Okay, a familiar _policeman_ in my house. I locked the door and headed for my truck.

* * *

Normally, court day was my favourite day of the week. Because Bon Temps was such a tiny place, there was only a small courthouse, with one magistrate, and he only worked one day a week. Anything more serious than a bar fight was kicked up the legal ladder. There was something familiar and comforting about court, like a favourite sitcom. There was the cast of recurring characters; Bon Temps's rather underwhelming criminal element, the familiar catchphrases; "I didn't mean to," "It was an accident," the moral at the conclusion of each episode; "Now let that be a lesson to you." Today, however, I was ready to be done with petty thieves and neighbours arguing over shared property lines.

"Now let that be a lesson to you," Chief Magistrate Baker dressed down his last defendant for the day, a bicycle thief. I rose from my chair in a flash, beating the bicycle thief's ashamed parents to the door. The foyer of the courthouse was empty, the steady stream of petty thieves in ill-fitting suits gone for the day. My unfamiliar heels clicked conspicuously on the linoleum as I paced, as I considered my options.

I wasn't ready to return to my apartment. I didn't know which possibility frightened me more, the one where there was a man asleep in my bed, the one where there was an awake policeman in shock that I couldn't help, or there was an empty apartment, and there was now a dazed and confused policeman roaming wild on the streets of Bon Temps. My main ally in the Sheriff's Department was out of it. My editor was stealing stories from me. My Grandaddy would have a field day at Eric showing up at my place.

With a sigh, I dialled my cell.

"Kennedy Harvey. At your service." She really answered the phone like that.

"Kennedy. It's Sookie. I need your help." There was a muffled sound, and I could imagine her flipping her hair.

"Sure honey. What do you need?"

"Your boyfriend still work at dispatch?" I heard her suck in her breath.

"Daniel? Sure." I briefly wondered which boyfriend she thought I meant.

"I need his number." She chuckled.

"You aren't fixing to steal my man, are you?" she joked chidingly.

"Not even a little bit," I answered, my voice failing to reach the required level of warmth.

"Sure, just let me find it. What's going on?"

"I'm not sure yet," I answered tersely. She rattled off his number, and I wrote it on my hand with a sharpie I found in my bag.

"Thanks a million, Kennedy. I owe you."

"Yes, you do. Girl's Night?" I famously avoided Girl's Night with Kennedy and her gaggle of girlfriends. They had all been cheerleaders and they all giggled more than was necessary in people over the age of fifteen. Not really my tribe.

"Sure. Soon," I agreed half-heartedly, before terminating the call.

The bicycle thief's family had begun to linger in the foyer, awaiting the release of their son. I moved to lean on the wall furthest from them and dialled the infamous Daniel.

"This is Dan the Man." He really answered the phone like that. They really were a perfect couple.

"Hi Dan. It's Sookie. Sookie Stackhouse."

"Yankee Jim's Sookie?". My favourite moniker.

"Yeah, that's me. Listen, you at work today?"

"Sure am. What do you need baby?" Hmmm...

"Was there any noise this morning about a shooting?"

"Sure. A cop capped a drifter." His voice rose a few octaves, betraying his excitement.

"A drifter? Really? Do you know what happened?"

"I know the call came out from the campground, near the reservoir? I think he'd been staying out there. Anyway, seems he had a whole load of illegal firearms in his tent with him. Hunting maybe. The deputies were all out there looking for something." At this my stomach dropped. "Must've spooked him. He pulled out a sawn-off. Cop squeezed one off before he could do any damage."

I took a few moments to process.

"He still alive?"

"Wouldn't say so. They called out the coroner, not the paramedic."

"Thank you Daniel. You've been very helpful."

"No problem, babe."

I ended the call, sliding down the wall to a sitting position.

This was bad.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

There was still a policeman in my bed when I got home. The bottle of Jacks was empty. The aspirin was gone. Probably not a good sign. I turned on the bedside lamp. He groaned and rolled over, his hand shielding his eyes from any residual brightness.

"No light," he grumbled. I switched the light off before sitting down on the bed. The springs squeaked awkwardly, making him moan again.

"That's better." He voice was still thick with sleep, and most likely, a hangover, but he seemed to be making the effort to seem more awake. I decided to just bite the bullet.

"I found out what happened." He rolled back over, to face me. The room was dark, the sun had just set. I could only see the hollow of his eyes, but I knew he was watching me, considering me.

"How does it feel to have a murderer in your bed?"

I let out a sigh. "Scooch over." He did as I requested. I laid down on the bed next to him, slipping my court shoes off as I did so, to stare at the ceiling. I searched around for his hand, and when I found it I clasped my fingers in his. I ran my thumb over his, and when I felt him relax slightly at my ministrations, I mustered up the courage to turn over to face him. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, I could just make out his eyes. He _was_ staring.

"This feels familiar," there was warmth to his voice, underneath the sadness.

"I have no idea what you mean." I whispered, though there was no need to whisper. I used my other hand to brush his hair from his eyes.

"Yes you do," he caught my wrist as I started to pull away and brought my hand back down to rest on his cheek. The stubble was soft against my palm. I curled my fingers and grazed his jawbone with my knuckles.

"I think you should keep the beard." I declared. "You could totally rock it." A bark of laughter escaped his throat. We both stared at each other, amazed at what had occurred.

The serious bubble had burst.

"How's your head?" I asked, feeling his forehead again.

"Lousy."

"Want me to drive you home?"

"No."

"Want me to skidoo you home?" I am rewarded with an involuntary smile.

"No."

"I'm running out of feasible options here."

"Go to sleep, Sookie," he said, bringing me closer to him, one arm around my waist. I burrowed into his chest, inhaling his scent, a heady mixture of cologne, Jacks and man sweat. He smelled like a bar. My bar. I drifted off with ease.

* * *

I woke up in bed, alone. That too, felt familiar. I checked my phone. 8am. I rolled onto my back and listened for signs of life. I could hear the television blaring in the apartment upstairs. Mr Hennessy was recently retired from a life working the jackhammer for the Parish road crew, and as a result, was very, very deaf. He was watching a M*A*S*H re-run at full volume. If I concentrated, I could make out Alan Alda's words. The woman who lived two doors down was having a shower, I could hear the pipes clanking. Janey Little was recently released from prison, for stabbing her scumbag ex-husband in the eye with a barbecue fork during a domestic disagreement. I liked her, she collected my mail when I was out of town.

My apartment however, was empty. He had gone.

There was a note on my kitchen table underneath the salt shaker. It said simply in a messy scrawl; "Thank You." I considered it for a moment, before stuffing it in my messenger bag along with everything else. It was a kind of proof, but of what, I wasn't quite sure.

* * *

The office was a flurry of activity, only two days from deadline. Troy barely waited for me to lay my bag down on my desk, before he descended upon me, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Today, a gold jacket fitted over his hefty frame, and his pompadour had not a hair out of place. I really hated him.

"Sookie Stackhouse, two shootings in three days! Tell me you aren't excited!" I just blinked at him. It clearly wasn't the expected response, but he continued on unperturbed.

"Are they linked? Who was this drifter? Did he kill Terry Bellfleur? Why? Can't ask him thanks to your buddy Northman, but I want fingerprints, residue, ballistics. I want you to find as many answers to these questions as possible before Thursday night."

"Sure thing Boss. Want me to get the statement about the police shooting from Dearborn first?"

"Already got it. And the autopsy report too. The bullet shattered his collarbone then punctured one of his lungs and broke two of his ribs before stopping near his spine."

"Ouch. So I guess you are on point with this too?"

"Let's call it a collaborative effort. I'm taking Terry, and we'll share the byline on the drifter. Unless it turns out they are linked. Then we'll share in the glory."

"How generous." He frowned at my tone.

"You and Northman are cosy, right? Think you could get a photo of our hero cop?"

"Hero Cop?"

"Damn straight. Saved the lives of three officers of the law, taking that guy out. Could have been a bloody massacre."

"I'll ask him. Anything else boss?" He considered my carefully for a moment.

"Cheer the fuck up. It's Christmas morning and you are missing it!" With that he sauntered back into his office and slammed the door shut. There was a collective sigh of relief across the office.

I sat down at my desk and stared at my blackened computer screen. It's true. I used to dream that boring little Bon Temp would become a crime-haven, where I could write interesting stories every week with a real, human impact. And now that it had, I was oddly numb.

I reached for my phone, but it started ringing in my hand.

"Sookie Stackhouse."

"Sweetheart."

"Grandaddy. Why are you calling me at work? Did something happen? Is Dad okay?"

"So many questions. And I think it is _you_ who should be answering questions?"

"Me?" I answered, weakly.

"I got a call from Everlee Mason this morning." I groaned. I knew where this was going.

"Of course you did. And what did she have to say?"

"Well it seems that her very good friend from the Gardening Club, Mrs Wilson is your next door neighbour. Seems that she surprised a young Deputy exiting the premises this morning when she went out to water her petunias. His cruiser had apparently been in the lot all night." I could picture his shit-eating grin.

"Rosemary Wilson, you say? I've heard she is medically blind. The only way she's managed to keep her license this long is because she memorised the eye chart. Good day." I hung up on him. Interfering old man.

I called the Sheriff's station. Donna, Dearborn's loyal receptionist of twenty years answered.

"Morning, Donna. Sookie Stackhouse here."

"Oh." I could feel her voice blistering in disappointment. "It's you."

"It sure is. Any chance Eric is there?"

"Deputy Northman is on compassionate leave," her voice took on a haughty tone.

"Of course he is. He didn't happen to leave a message for me, did he?"

"Why no, Miss Stackhouse, he didn't. I'm sure the town hero has better things to do than leave messages for the town -" I thought she'd hung up on me, but suddenly I heard a lot of whispered voices and rustling around.

"Hello, Sookie?" It was man's voice. Young. A boy's voice, really.

"Yes?"

"It's Deputy Pryor." Nothing clicked.

"I saw you unload the entire contents of your stomach not two days ago," he prompted. Ah, the redheaded one.

"Kevin, of course. What can I do for you?"

"Contrary to the testimony of our esteemed receptionist, Eric did tell me to pass a message along."

"Oh?"

"You know that blood we found?"

"Sure."

"Human. The results came in last night."

"Thank you Deputy."

"Not a problem ma'am."

I disconnected the call, before slumping in my seat. Had three been killed in three days?


	7. Chapter 7

**This is my favourite chapter, and the last I have written, so far. I sincerely hope you like it :-)**

**Chapter Seven**

It came time to tell Troy about the puddle of mysterious blood. I don't think I have ever seen the man so happy.

"This is it!" he cried. "Finally something is happening around here!" He licked his lips, eyes darting wildly. "It's only a matter of time before the larger press gets a hold of this, and when they do, this paper is going big!" I could practically see the wheels turning in his head, picturing television appearances and young, pretty things from larger papers flocking to hang on his every word. I felt ill.

"And you got all of this without going through Bud Dearborn? You must be a terrific lay, if Northman keeps feeding you all of this." I take it back. I wasn't ill. I was ready to scratch the misogynist's fucking eyes out. I needed to get out of there.

I grabbed my messenger bag and headed for the door. I almost didn't turn around. But I was never really one for impulse control.

"I'll have you know that I am a terrific lay. But that isn't how I got this. You see, despite what you think, Bubba, I am actually good at my job. Even if you don't appreciate that. Even if you are willing to undermine my role here whenever it suits your interests. I'll be back to file the latest on this tonight, when you aren't here."

I tried to ignore the ugly shade of puce that Troy's face had become, this mouth opening and closing repeatedly, too incensed to make words. I tried to ignore Kennedy's expression of uncontained glee as she stood poised at the watercooler, failing miserably in her attempt at looking like she was doing anything other than eavesdropping. I tried to ignore the fact that I might have just let my big mouth cost me my job. I turned back around, and I left.

I took the latest incarnation of Troy's parking sign with me.

* * *

I spent the rest of the day trying to learn the identity of the drifter, and any clues as to his actions in the last few days. I drove out to the reservoir, to see the area for myself, but the camping ground was taped off, and the place was still crawling with cops. I could see the drifter's tent, tucked away on the end of the campground. There were cooking utensils and food trash littering the outside. He had evidently been there some time. It was about then that an officer I didn't know waved me away.

I drove back to town. I stopped outside the bar to call the coroner's office. They hadn't gotten an ID on the drifter yet, but the police were searching for a vehicle, and tracing the guns. It was only a matter of time. The ballistics results from the guns to see if they matched Terry's murder weapon would take at least another twenty four hours. The department was going to be pretty overstretched for the next days. I wondered if they were even looking into the pool of blood yet. Normally I'd be the first to be chasing this up, demanding an investigation. But I wasn't quite firing on all cylinders right then.

I managed to enter the bar and reach the back stairs without making eye contact with anyone, which I considered a personal triumph. A few more steps and I was laid out on my childhood bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars I had stuck to my ceiling when I was 8.

I was still staring up at them when my father rapped on my door a few hours later.

"I thought I saw you come up here. Can I come in?"

"Sure," I rolled over to face the doorway, as my father's anxious face poked through.

"Are you alright honey?" His face was drawn, tense. I hated that look. I shook my head, closing my eyes to prevent the tears. I felt the mattress shift as he sat on the edge. I opened my eyes to look at him. He placed his large hand on my upper arm and began to run his hand up and down, in a comforting motion.

"Is it work?" I shrugged.

"You are many things Sookie Stackhouse, but you aren't quiet. Mouthy, yes. Quiet, no." I could feel the corner of my mouth quirk up involuntarily.

"I'm not feeling like myself today."

"Then who _do_ you feel like today?"

"Mom." His hand on my arm stilled, and his grip became tight. His eyes became sharp, pointed.

"You are nothing like her." He enunciated each word carefully, looking directly in my eyes, willing me to believe him. "Nothing."

I rubbed my forehead with both hands, and his grip loosened.

"Yes I am." I could see him begin to contradict me, so I continued. "I know I'm not her. And I'm not bound by her mistakes. But I've made so many of my own, just being back here. I'm starting to get really good at pushing people away."

I glanced to see his reaction to this, but he was smiling, which I wasn't expecting.

"Not everyone, it seems."

"What?"

"There is a reason I came up here. There is a young Deputy in the bar looking for you." I jolted upright, then realised I was jumping to conclusions.

"The skinny ginger one?" I asked, my tone betraying my anxiety.

He brushed my bangs from my face and smiled.

"No." And with that he was gone.

I hastily jumped off the bed, chancing a glance in my vanity mirror. I looked like crap. Great. I pulled my fingers through my hair, trying to flatten it out. I hadn't made much progress when there was another knock at the door.

Crap! I swung the door open before I could let my nerves get the better of me.

He stood there, fist half raised to knock again. He smiled self consciously, and dropped his hand quickly.

"Hi." He was out of uniform. I took a moment to drink in the unfamiliar look. Jeans. Blue sweatshirt. Converse. The fledgling beard, however, remained.

"Nice civvies," I smirked. He grinned. I stood back to let him into the room. He pulled a bottle of Jacks from behind his back, and placed it on my dresser. It had a red bow tied around its neck.

I raised an eyebrow.

"I was going to leave it outside your apartment, but I thought that with the amount of alcoholics living in that building, there was no guarantee that it would still be there when you got home."

"Thank you." He took a moment to glance around the room.

"It's very pink." It was. My mother had once painted it a kind of pepto-bismol pink, as if that would make up for my otherwise tomboyish behaviour.

"Not my choice."

'No," his eyes left the walls and found mine. "Doesn't seem like you."

I stepped backwards and spread my arms wide. "So this is where the magic happens."

He raised his eyebrow then, and his grin turned wicked.

"Oh shut up," I said, laughing despite myself. "I feel weird having a boy in the same room as my pony figurines. Let's go down to the bar." I grabbed his elbow then, and started to pull him towards the door. He resisted, his attention focused on something.

"I knew it!" He voice was triumphant.

"Knew what?" I turned to look at what where his attention lay. Oh. Crap. The wall beside my bookcase was covered in newspaper and magazines clippings, and three small steel plates, each declaring "Don't even think about it."

"I _fucking _knew it was you!" His laugh was almost maniacal in its intensity, and he clutched my dresser for support.

"Oh c'mon," I said. I dragged him downstairs and into the bar. I pushed him, none too gently into one of the booths, as far away from my grandfather's curious gaze as I could get. His cheeks were red with mirth and he was still prone to a random chuckle.

"Be cool, Deputy." I whispered. "If you aren't planning on charging me, and let's face it, _you're not_, I suggest you keep this on the down low." He sobered a little, but his omnipresent grin could not be deterred.

"Sure thing Miss Stackhouse. It will be our little secret." He tapped his nose, and winked conspiratorially. I punched him in the shoulder, harder than was strictly necessary. He rubbed the spot, and shot me a look of mock offense.

"Well you seem better," I offered.

"I slept well last night." His gaze was direct, and I shifted uncomfortably.

It was of course, that moment my grandfather chose to make his appearance, perma-grin in place, his eyes sparkling. "Well, don't you two look cosy." I groaned, and covered my face in my hands.

"Sir," Eric nodded.

"Deputy," my grandaddy nodded back. He placed two sweating glasses on the table before us.

"Thought you kids might like some sweet tea." I mumbled my thanks, Eric shook his hand in gratitude. He took a step away from the table, smiling at us.

"Need anything, Grandaddy?" I asked pointedly.

"No," he replied cheerfully, before he wandered off. I groaned again, before turning back to Eric.

"How long are you on leave?"

"Two weeks. And I have to see the cop shrink."

"I guess it's a good thing I've found an ally in your prodigy, then."

"Kevin?" I nodded. "Yeah, he's keeping me posted while I'm out. I'll make sure he keeps you in the loop. Lord knows, Dearborn will try anything to keep you out."

"He's already got Donna vetting the reception. I think she has a crush on you." Sweet tea sprayed from his mouth in a very undignified fashion at this, and a strangled noise escaped his throat. He rushed to clean up with a pile of napkins.

"Donna Smithers?" He hissed, while wiping his chin. "Double divorcee Donna with the eighties perm and the penchant for acid wash jeans?" I shrugged. He sighed, rubbing his temples.

"It's okay. She'd have to fight off my grandaddy for your attention."

"Is he still looking?"

"Yep." He chuckled.

"He's being less subtle than usual tonight." His brow furrowed. "Mrs Wilson told him I was coming out of your place, didn't she?"

"Mrs Wilson via Everlee Mason." His eyes bulged.

"Fuck. I'd better go see my mother. She'll be knitting booties." He stood up abruptly. "Walk me out?"

I followed him out to the parking lot, but there was no cruiser parked there. He noticed my searching look.

"The Department needs all the vehicles it can get right now. My old man doesn't mind me taking his for a few days." He indicated an aged green truck I hadn't noticed, sitting under a light on the other side of the lot. I shrugged, folding my arms against my chest in an attempt to keep warm.

"So you really did come out here just to deliver a bottle of bourbon? To someone who spends half their time in a bar?"

"Are you implying that I had a nefarious ulterior motive?" he asked, stepping forward, his face dangerously close to mine. I swallowed hard. Before I could react, he put his arms around my neck and drew me to him, his lips crashing into mine. I froze for a second, until some switch inside me flipped, and I unfolded my arms to encircle his waist, kissing him back. His warm mouth moaned against mine, and his fingers tangled in my hair. I felt his tongue glide across my lips, and I let him deepen the kiss. Christ, it had been a while since I had been kissed like that. Eventually, reluctantly, we broke apart, his forehead still resting on mine.

"Well that was new." I mumbled through numbed lips.

"Let's not kid ourselves, Sookie. It's not that new."

"So we are talking about that now."

"I'm not the one who pretended it never happened." His mouth formed a line I didn't like.

"I'm sorry." I pulled away from him slightly, but he still had a hold on me.

"I know," his voice softened. "I knew then, that it wasn't the right time to start something. But now?" He hugged me to him and kissed the top of my head, before releasing me from his embrace.

"So this is us, starting something?"

"Yes." He gave me a cocky grin, walking backwards towards the truck.

"Do I get a say in this?" I called after him.

"No!" He called back, chuckling to himself as he climbed into the cab. I watched him reverse, then pull alongside where I stood. I waited for him to manually lower the window.

"Good night kiss?" He puckered his lips dramatically. I shoved his head back inside the cab with my hand.

"You are a cruel woman, Sookie Stackhouse." He winked, and began rolling up the window. He pulled out of the lot, and with a final toot of the horn, he was gone.

I stared after him for a while. Well. That really wasn't how I was expecting the evening to go.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This is a bit of a nothing chapter. It's really, really hard not to have her just sneak off after Eric. They are the only scenes that I actually feel things flowing along. And I keep switching between present and past tense. Bah!**

**Chapter Eight**

I thought about sleeping, or about creeping back into the office and filing what I had on my mysterious pool of blood. But the truth was, there wasn't a whole lot to file. Deadline was in twenty-four hours and what did I have?

A dead alcoholic I couldn't write about.

A pool of human blood I couldn't find the source of.

A dead drifter I couldn't necessarily blame for either of these two events.

All I had was the memory of a kiss burning my lips, and the muffled sounds of merriment emanating from Northern Louisiana's cheesiest dive bar assaulting my ears.

Well, maybe that wasn't nothing.

I slipped back inside the bar, my efforts to avoid my grandfather's eyes dashed. He had been standing right inside the door, and I nearly bowled him over in my haste to get inside.

"Shepard of Judea!" I cried, one hand to my chest, eager to stop the palpitations, the other hand clutching his shoulder to keep the both of us upright.

"No, it's just Yankee Jim." He replied cheerfully, my latest assault on him apparently doing nothing to diminish his mood.

"You didn't happen to be spying on me, were you Granddaddy?"

He contorted his face into what he considered the picture of innocence. "Spyin'?" He holds his palms up in protest, but his eyes are twinkling with mischief. "Of all the notions! I don't know where you get all your fanciful ideas from, because you certainly didn't get them from my side of the family!"

I take the time to purposefully glance around the room, paying special attention to the distinctive shape that was Betsy, propped up on the pool table. "Says the proprietor of an alligator bar," I snort.

He considers me, face level for all of a moment before the old man cannot help himself and his eyes crinkle in that wonderful way that they do, and he envelops me in a warm hug.

"Your young man didn't want to stay for dinner?" He asks, oh-so-innocently, once he releases me.

"He isn't my young man." I huff, one hand on my hip to show I want this line of questioning over with.

"Are you sure?" He asks, levelling his eyes to mine.

"Quite sure," I reply bruskly.

"Whatever you say, my dear," he nods, before turning to go back behind the bar. "But it didn't look like that from where I was spyin'!" he calls back over his shoulder.

I let out an exasperated sigh and turn on my heel, finding myself unwittingly headed towards the kitchen, my grandfather's mention of dinner apparently sparking my unconscious mind.

The new cook, Lafayette Reynolds, is standing over the stove, apparently singing into a pot of gumbo when I approach. He whirls around when he hears my footsteps on the linoleum.

"Honey child!" He exclaims, his technicolor fingernails flying into the air as if he is a Southern Baptist and I am the Lord's Prayer. To clarify, Lafayette is no Baptist. He is black, built like a linebacker, and incidentally, the campest person I have ever met. Tonight he is wearing what appears to be a leopard print tank top with gold jeans, separated by a purple scarf looped through his jeans in lieu of a belt. He never does anything by half measures, that Mr Reynolds. He is also definitely the worst cook we've ever had. There have been incidents, mostly involving the fire brigade being called out. My Dad wants to fire him, but Yankee Jim thinks he is a hoot. So he stays, for now, until my Dad gets some dirt on Grandaddy, or he burns the place to the ground.

I am jostled out of these thoughts by the feeling of a wooden spoon hitting my lip. Without thinking, I bat it away and take on a defensive position. Lafayette bursts into laughter so hard, he has to clutch the side of the counter to prevent himself from doubling over.

"Now, now, all I wanted was for you to try some of my gumbo," he chides, bending over to retrieve the spoon I'd knocked out of his hands. I have the good graces to look embarrassed, but he just pats me on the shoulder good-naturedly.

"Never mind, honey child. If I was biting myself off a piece of that mancake, I'd be mighty distracted too."

_Mancake?_ I can feel my cheeks redden of their own accord.

"I'm not… how'd you…" I shook my head. "Never mind," I mutter, finally. I glance back at Lafayette, who is giving me a disbelieving eyebrow. I'm getting sick of those.

"Just feed me the damn gumbo!" I say. He nods, and heads back to the stove, chortling to himself. When he whirls around, with the spoon outstretched this time, I take a tentative lick of the spoon. _Bad. So very, very bad._

"Maybe a little less salt," I say diplomatically. Lafayette just nods, heading back over to the stove, humming a little more.

"So, where did you work before this?" I ask, eager to fill up any Eric-shaped conversational holes as soon as possible. "My Grandaddy said somewhere in Florida?"

Lafayette takes a moment to add what appears to be an alarming amount of chilli powder to the pot before turning around to face me again.

"Merlotte's Bar & Grill, just outsid'a Tampa, Florida," he replies, his voice devoid of pride.

"The Big Guava," I reply, unthinkingly. He gives me the eyebrow again. "Never mind, just something I read." He nods.

"So what brought you up here? It sure wasn't the diverse people and vibrant nightlife," I try to recover.

"My Mama is up here. St Stephens? In Shreveport?" Northern Lousiana's best psychiatric hospital. I was really failing at this conversation.

"Sure, and you wanted to be closer to her?" I ask, trying smooth things out.

"That and I have a cousin up here. Tara Thornton? She the one who talked Yankee Jim into giving me this job."

My head whipped up at that one.

"Tara?" I practically screech. "She's back? When?"

In high school, Tara Thornton, had pretty much been my closest friend. I was sarcastic and she was fierce. Together, we had made quite the pair. She had gotten married right out of high school, to her prom date, JB DuRone. JB who was one or two bricks short of a load, but nice to look at, and otherwise the most harmless guy on the planet. With Tara's kind of home life, harmless had been her ideal. Last I heard they had moved to Georgia, and they were raising twin girls.

"Bout two months ago. They staying over in Clarice in a rental until they can find a house up for sale here, with room for the girls. She told me all 'bout you, of course."

I gulped at that. "She did?"

"You bet your sweet golden locks, she did. Was you really the one who found out about Andy Bellfleur's little meth problem? Taken straight outta the evidence room?"

"Detective Andy Bellfleur. And I plead the fifth." It was time to escape. "You wouldn't be able to make me a sandwich would you?"

I thought sandwiches could not be ruined. Let the record state, I was wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thank you to all the people who have read, favourited and reviewed. You are made of awesome, and I'm really lucky everyone has been really positive so far. I am supposed to be working on two assignments for my Masters right now, but this is much more fun. As you've noticed, I like writing dialogue. I used to write plays. You can tell, can't you?**

**Chapter Nine**

The next day was deadline, but I couldn't bring myself to go to the office. If I was fired, I wanted to live in blissful ignorance a bit longer. I hadn't received any scary emails or calls telling my otherwise, so I was free to live my fiction for now.

I'd set myself up at one end of the bar with my laptop, still within wifi range of my Dad's office, but out of the way of where he was doing payroll. Yankee Jim had left me a pitcher of sweet-tea about an hour earlier, before he had gone outside to tinker with his boat.

The bar had only just opened, a little before 11, and the only two people on duty were Dawn Green, the replacement bartender, who was reading from a gossip magazine, and Lafayette, who I could hear singing along to the radio in the kitchen. Thursday morning was not exactly our busiest time. The relative peace gave me time to examine what I had, and what I still needed before 8. I needed a lot. I had been stuck on my to-do list for over twenty minutes already.

I had just paused from my typing to take a sip of tea, when I felt the presence of someone beside me.

"My mother wants to invite you over for dinner." Sweet tea sprayed from my mouth, covering my laptop screen. I furiously wiped at the screen with my sleeve, praying to the technology gods for forgiveness. To their credit, the screen remains on, if a little sticky.

I glanced to my right. As expected, the bar stool next to me is occupied by one Eric Northman, in civilian mode, looking slightly more nervous than normal.

"I see," I replied, trying to retain my composure. "And you thought you'd get that out of the way first? Just rip off the proverbial band-aid?"

"Something like that. Will you go?" I angle my body to face him properly.

"Why is your mother inviting me over for dinner, Northman? What did you do?"

"You want the play-by-play?"

I give him a 'move-it-along' gesture. He goes to speak, when he is interrupted.

"Well hey there, Eric. Long time no see, can I get you anything honey?" Dawn asks, words dripping in syrup, peering up at him through her eyelashes. She leans over the bar towards him, one perfectly crafted eyebrow raised. I can see his eyes travel from her chest, which has practically been thrust in his face, to her crazy kitten smile, his expression one of bewilderment.

"Uh, hi Dawn. No, I'm fine, just uh, here on police business." He answers, his gaze returning to her chest.

"You sure now?" She is practically purring, and I find myself wondering how she does it.

"Yep." He says, swallowing hard.

"Okay honey, but let me know if you change your mind," she says, before turning to go back to her magazine, a deliberate sway in each step.

I did admire the display, even if I didn't appreciate it. I always thought of Dawn Green as a spider, ensnaring men into her web like flies, and then picking them off, one by one at her leisure. I was convinced that half of the male clientele of Yankee Jim's came in just hoping they would be her next victim.

Eric is still staring straight ahead, so I flick his ear to get his attention.

"Ow." He clutches his ear. "That was unnecessary," he whines.

"Was it?" I ask, pointedly. He considers my raised eyebrow, and I can see him color slightly, and he shrugs.

"So, Mr Here-On-Police-Business, you were saying?"

He checks to see that Dawn is out of earshot, and then he shrinks down into the stool, his posture shifts and he begins to speak in a hilarious falsetto.

"Eric Northman, if you like this girl enough to risk getting caught slipping out of her apartment at the crack of dawn, you like her enough to have her over for chicken pot pie with your family. No son of mine was raised to treat Yankee Jim's granddaughter like some two-bit floozy. Now you go over and invite her to a nice, respectable family dinner." I can't help but smile at his impression.

"So she likes me?" I ask.

"She thinks you're tenacious." He grins, rubbing his ear. "She's not wrong." I chance a smile, before a thought comes to me.

"Your Dad used to go fishing with Andy Bellefleur." He sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair.

"He did. And they went boar-hunting too, every so often. I think the relevant phrase is "used to." But in any case, my Dad will behave himself with my Mom around. Don't worry yourself about that."

"And you're sure you wouldn't rather invite someone else over? Someone like, say, Dawn?" I ask, innocently.

"Dawn is a viper." He answers simply. "A very hot viper." He grins, unabashed. "But I like the girls I bring home to be a little more…." He considers his ending. I sit up a little straighter, eager to hear the conclusion. "Repressed," he finishes, his smile wicked. I laugh, despite myself, and shove him sideways off his stool. He catches himself in time, but his stool falls to the ground, clattering on the wooden floorboards. Dawn glances up to give me an exasperated look, before returning to her celebrity gossip.

He rights himself and his chair, before leaning over to glance at what I'm typing.

"Isn't tonight your deadline?" He asks.

"Yep."

"Why aren't you at the office, yelling at evasive members of law enforcement over the telephone? Isn't that your particular speciality?" I ignore the mischievous glint in his eye.

"The last time I was in my office I told my boss I was a good lay." Eric snorts.

"Of course you did. You know, I can't say I've ever had to have a conversation like that at the Sheriff's station."

"I'd believe that."

"So are we going to go into why you might have said that to Troy, or should I just chalk it up to general eccentricity, while rethinking that whole repressed thing?"

"That depends. Do you like hearing about your professional integrity being called into question?"

"Oh." He places both hands on the bar, and begins to pick at the frayed ends of the bar towel. "News travels fast."

"Newspaper." I reply, glumly.

"So Troy thinks I'm giving you information because I'm sleeping with you."

"Correct."

"And instead of correcting him, you chose to fuel his theory, out of anger"

"Correct." He pushes his stool backwards, and rises to his full height, placing both hands on my shoulders. I expect his expression to be sort of mad, but if anything, he seems amused.

"I'll tell my mother you'll be at dinner tomorrow." He places a kiss at my hairline, and makes his exit before I can formulate a response.

Fuck.

I am preparing myself to ask Dawn to break out the whisky early, when I am interrupted by a familiar Jimi Hendrix riff. _Foxy Lady_.

"Kennedy?" I answer gingerly, half afraid that Troy has commandeered her phone.

"Morning Sookie! You need to get down here. Like yesterday." She announces, no-nonsense, her words still laced with sugar.

"Do I still have a job?" I ask.

I hear her sweet laughter down the line, and it makes me feel a little better.

"Oh honey, of course you do." I release a breath I hadn't known I was holding. "But you really need to get down here. Right now."

"Why is that?" I ask, my voice filling with dread.

"Terry Bellefleur's ex-wife is here to see you."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: I've been absent for a little bit getting all my uni stuff in order. What a bitch of a thing that was. All done now, until the next thing. Let the story recommence! Cheers again for the nice reviews. Anonymous reviewers are welcome to stop with the slut-shaming of Dawn at any time, though. She's not so bad. You'll see. You'll all see. MWAHAHAHAH *cough* furball. **

**Chapter Ten**

I had enough trepidations about making my re-appearance at the Free Press offices before one added a sudden and unexpected visit from the former Mrs Terry Bellefleur to the mix.

Troy was there. So too were two staff members who had witnessed my last little outburst, and perhaps the rest who had since been informed. I could do without the stares. I could do without the yelling. I could do without them wondering why Sophie-Anne Bellefleur had taken it upon herself to see me, when I myself had not a clue. The only thing that really made me feel any better about the situation was the brand new cardboard sign tucked discreetly into my laptop case.

I braced myself, drew a deep breath and pushed the door open.

"Sookie!" Kennedy practically shot out of chair. Her smile was radiant, her hair unruffled and perfect. But her eyes had that look about them; the steely, determined look of a shark who'd gotten a whiff of blood in the water. She smelled gossip, and she wanted it. Bad.

She ran over to greet me, and appeared to embrace me in welcome. What she actually did however, was direct me, none-too-subtly behind the shelf containing all the past editions, out of view of the rest of the newsroom.

"What the hell, Sookie!?" She was trying to keep her voice low, and failing miserably.

"What the hell what?!"

"Did you really poach a story right out from under Troy? After yesterday? And you didn't tell me?!"

"Whoa, whoa, poaching? No one is poaching!"

"Sophie-Anne Bellefleur is sitting in Troy's office right now, saying she doesn't want to talk to anyone but you!"

"She is?" I ask, dumfounded.

"Like you didn't know." The accusation in her voice stings a little. I hold my hands up in surrender.

"I haven't talked to Mrs Bellefleur since she used to coach soccer in the fifth grade!" The look she shoots me says she doesn't believe me.

"Well you'd better get in there. Bubba's in a right state. He didn't want me to call you, of course, said _he'd_ handle it. But all she's been doing is staring him down and drinking all the Cokes out of the staff fridge for the last hour."

It's all I can do to cover my face and groan.

"I'm so sacked, aren't I?" I ask, miserably behind my hands.

"Not while you are bringing in exclusives!" She replies brightly. "He'll get over it." She mulls this over. "Eventually." She gives me a real hug then, one I am late to respond to, and then gives me a not-so-gentle nudge towards Troy's office.

The door was opaque glass, with Troy's obnoxious title stencilled in black.

_**Troy Rymers, B.A.**_

_**Editor-in-chief**_

Any man who insists on including a bachelor's degree in his title is indeed a shifty character. I rap on the door three times. I am expecting to be summoned inside, so I am caught unawares when the door bursts open and there stands my beloved editor-in-chief, his face a peculiar shade of magenta, and oddly enough, smiling. With teeth. Like a chimpanzee does before it attacks.

"Sookie!" He exclaims, with what passes for enthusiasm. "I'm so sorry to call you in from your investigative work, but Mrs Bellefleur here was quite eager to catch up with you now she is back in town." The apologetic tone is so forced I can feel my ability to keep a straight face being sorely tested.

"Actually it's Ms. Leclerq now," came a clipped voice from behind Troy's immense bulk. Troy whirls around to confront his corrector, and I get my first glimpse of the newly minted Sophie-Anne Leclerq for the first time in over a decade. She looks very together, that's my first impression. She's mid-fifties, wearing a burgundy skirt suit, tights and full makeup, her dark red hair cut into a business-like bob which somehow manages to avoid clashing with her outfit. She's pleasantly plump, and there are laugh lines around her mouth, but the determined set of her jaw lets me know that, right now, she is not a happy woman. I figure it's time to intervene.

I sidestep Troy while he isn't watching me, and stick out a hand in greeting.

"Welcome Ms. Leclerq. My sincerest condolences about your late ex-husband." She nods once, her eyes fixed on me. "As I'm sure you've heard, I'm Sookie Stackhouse. If I remember you used to coach me in soccer, when I was in grade school."

"Miss Stackhouse," she replies coolly, her return handshake firm. "You were a terrible soccer player." I bark out a laugh, and the corner of her mouth twitches.

"I certainly was. So Ms. Leclerq, what was it that you wanted to see me about?"

"I was hoping we could have a word in private. If your editor would be so kind as to…"

Troy, startled, whirls around with a panicked expression. He goes to close the office door leaving the three of us inside, when he sees Sophie-Anne's pointed look. Realisation dawning on his face, he makes an awkward, apologetic bow and starts to back out of the door. "If you ladies…. anything... be right outside." He manages, before the door swings shut and it is just Sophie-Anne and I.

She motions towards Troy's vacant chair, and I take a seat, my eyes never leaving hers.

"What an insufferable man," she notes. I cannot hide my grin. "His parents were always good people, but ever since that boy came back from Baton Rouge with his fancy college education he's been nothing but the height of pomposity. I do hope Tulane didn't have that same effect on you?" I visibly start.

"You seem to know a lot about me."

"Your mother used to write to me, before she passed. She was always so proud of you." I make a point to avoid her gaze, which seems almost expectant. "I've been keeping up with your work here since you started the website. It's good to keep tabs on one's old acquaintances, don't you think?"

"Not to be too blunt, Mrs Leclerq, but why are you here? I mean, I know why you are here in Bon Temps, but why are you _here _to see me?"

"As I said, I've been keeping tabs. On this town. On you. I know you got the last Deputy Sheriff fired, and I got a right kick out of that. I also know that my ex-husband had been pouring all of his earnings into your Granddaddy's pocket since before I left. Now I didn't see me a dime of child support from that man while he chose to drink himself almost to death, but he didn't contest the divorce neither, and that counts for a lot with me. That man may have had his demons, but he didn't stand in the way of me and the kids finding a better life for ourselves away from him." I nod, and wait for her to continue.

"Lord knows, that man wasn't perfect. But he was my husband for ten years, and when he gets shot in his own home, in the middle of the night in Crime-Free, USA, my suspicions were raised. So imagine my surprise when I am packing up the car to come up here to sort out funeral arrangements, and I get a letter in the mail, from some fancy lawyer in New Orleans."

"What kind of letter?"

"The kind that ends with a lot of zeros. Terry had life insurance. Enough to see the kids through college, and take an extended vacation down to the Keys."

"You think he planned it, then. A hit on himself?"

"I know he planned it. I just want to know who pulled the trigger."

"Why haven't you gone to the police?"

"If the police rule it an assisted suicide, the insurance doesn't pay out. If they put it down as a homicide, double indemnity…"

"Pays out double." I sigh.

"I've seen what you can do. You are the best investigator in this town. A damn sight better than Cousin Andy ever was. I want you to find the trigger man for me. And I'll pay you handsomely for the privilege." _Big gulp._

"And what will you do once you find him?"

"Oh, honey, a woman never reveals all of her secrets. But suffice to say, I'm going to make sure he evades the attention of the Renard Parish Sheriff's Department."

"What makes you think I would do that?"

"$40,000, and the chance for some good to come out of this situation. This was obviously Terry's wish. Plus I know you are no friend of the local law."

Well _that_ was true.

"So in the meantime, what am I supposed to tell my colleagues practically panting on the other side of that door was the reason for your visit?"

"Tell them I'd like to be the one to write Terry's obituary. I'll find some photos, some nice ones from before. And I'm planning a memorial for him, at Yankee Jims after the funeral. If you'd be able to square things with your Granddaddy?"

"He liked Terry. I'm sure that'd be no problem."

"Excellent." She rises out of her chair, hand extended. I merely look at it.

"I didn't say I'd do it," I say.

"But I hope you will," she says. She retracts her hand, and rummages around in her black leather handbag until she pulls out an embossed business card.

"In case you decide to take the case." She goes to hand it to me, then thinks better of it, and leaves it on the desk in front of her.

"It was a pleasure, Miss Stackhouse."

"Ms. Leclerq," I reply. And with that she takes her leave, the only remnants of our conversation a lingering trace of her floral perfume, and the business card taunting me from under Troy's stapler.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hey. I tried about 3 different versions of this chapter, and this one won. Let me know what you think.**

**Chapter Eleven**

In the end, I take the card. Of course I do. And just in the nick of time, too, because not two seconds after I palm it, Troy bursts back into his office, his previously demure expression replaced with one a little more furious.

"Boss," I greet, as he stands in the doorway, huffing with apparent rage. I feel it is best to engage before he can formulate words. "Ms. Leclerq wants to hold a memorial at Yankee Jim's for the dearly departed. Wants me to put in a good word. And to make up for kicking you out of your office, she has offered to write an obituary. Complimentary. Personal. Cute wedding photos, Terry with the kids, all the fluff. It'd make a good page three if no good police leads turn up." I can see the cogs turning. His posture straightens. His face pales by a few shades, and is altogether less purplish.

"Page five," he replies gruffly. "With three killed in a week, your hero cop beats out the bereaved. Had she been an actual widow, we could have worked with it. Her kids aren't all that much to look at either, all freckles and orthodontia. You have a contact number?"

"Yes sir." I glance at the card I have tucked discreetly in my sleeve, and write the number down on the nearest post-it.

"Good. Now go get me a picture of your hero cop looking heroic or tortured. Either will do." I merely nod, and attempt to shuffle out the door. I almost make it.

"Should I find out that you orchestrated that little meeting as a way to undermine me, or you are attempting to wrangle your own story on Terry using information obtained during said secret meeting, you will be out on your ass. Am I clear?"

"Crystal." I reply, my voice squeakier than I'd prefer.

_Well I guess Sophie-Anne's secrets are safe with me for now._

"Good." He considers me for a moment, with more than a hint of smugness, before moving aside to let me pass. "Now get the fuck out."

* * *

I'm praying for voice mail, so naturally he picks up after the first ring.

"Miss me already?" The voice is husky, and I'm sure I haven't had enough coffee to handle it.

"Hi. So you know how you owe me one?" I ask, all business.

"Why hello, lover, I am so glad to hear how much you missed me. It's only been an hour, are you really that insatiable?"

"If you are within earshot of anyone in the Bridge Club right now, I swear to god –"

"It would serve you right for making me feel so cheap, with all your talk of… special favors."

"Please, stop."

"Are you sure you want me to stop?" Nowhere. Near. Enough. Coffee. I take a moment to compose myself, loosening the stranglehold I now have on the steering wheel of my parked truck.

"I need a picture of Renard Parish's most celebrated lawman. Today. Now. Looking either heroic or tortured."

"I thought you wanted me to stop?"

"For the _paper. _Troy's idea."

"And just like that, the mood is ruined." The tone is forlorn, but I can hear the smile.

"Please?"

"Is the prospect of chicken pot pie really that terrible?"

"I'm pretty sure your father hates me."

"I'm pretty sure the only things my father has strong feelings about are the Saints and Johnny Cash."

"Please?" There is a beat of silence. Two.

"Ugh, fine. It's a good thing you're cute, Stackhouse. Uniform?"

"Preferably."

"Give me fifteen to get pretty. Your office?

"Hell to the no. Sheriff's Station?"

"Not ideal. Just come round mine."

"Yours?"

"Yes. Mine. I know you haven't forgotten."

"What if I have?"

"See you in fifteen, Sookie." _Click._ Smug bastard.

* * *

Eric Northman lives in a dilapidated old farmhouse set on a small patch of land, about three miles further out of town than Yankee Jim's. It's hidden from the road by a small cluster of trees, and the driveway is in bad need of repair. The place used to belong to Eric's grandfather, before he passed about a year ago, and it's clear that Eric hasn't gotten around to much in the way of home improvement since he took the place on.

As I bound up the front steps onto to the front porch, I do notice that despite the peeling paint and under-loved garden beds, Eric hasn't been completely idle on the home front. The porch swing has been rehung since I was last here, and strewn with red cushions. I'm still staring at it when Eric suddenly swings open the screen door, almost smacking me in the face.

The door doesn't quite hit me, but in my surprise, I try to step backwards and instead fall hard onto my butt. It hurts. I hear expletives, but I don't think they are all coming from me. When the first wave of pain subsides, my vision clears and I can see blue eyes down on my level, crinkled with concern.

"Are you alright?" he asks. I consider my injuries. Luckily, I seem to have broken the fall for my camera bag.

"I will be. I'm not sure if my pride will recover so quickly."

"You and your damned pride," he mutters before unexpectedly gathering me in his arms and carrying me over to sit on that damned swing. Once I'm gently situated on one of the (admittedly pretty comfy) cushions, he takes a seat beside me, eyes still scanning for obvious signs of distress. This is my first chance to get a proper look at him myself. His hair is still damp from the shower, and neatly combed back. His boots are shiny, his khakis are freshly pressed, and his uniform shirt is stiff from starch. He's gone all out. And yet, the three day beard remains.

"You didn't shave?" I ask, tentatively.

"A pretty girl told me I could totally rock a beard," he smiles faintly. "But if you need it gone-"

"No," I interrupt. "No, it's good."

"Good."

The trouble with awkward silences is that I try too hard to fill them.

"You fixed the swing." This is absolutely the wrong thing to say. In a second, Eric's eyes turn from cordial to heated, and I can feel him drawing closer.

"I missed it." Big gulp.

"The swing?"

"Sure," he says, leaning over me now in such a way that his face is inches from mine, eyes burning white hot.

"You really don't hate me?" I blurt out. Abruptly, Eric leans away, hurt flashing briefly across his face. He seems to gather himself for a second, before reaching some kind of inner resolve. He fixes me with a determined stare.

"Sookie, I never hated you. I need you to get that."

"But how could you not? I mean, I used you." The hurt is back, but the resolve is still there too.

"Sookie, I can't pretend it didn't hurt. But realistically, it was the worst week of your life. I was stupid to expect anything. You were in pain, and I was there. _I get it._"

"You know it wasn't just that."

"Maybe not. But you weren't ready. And I should've known that."

"What makes now any better? You showed up at my place on Monday after _shooting someone_. Is this just something we do now? Seek each other out on our worst days?"

"I didn't go to your apartment looking for sex, Sookie."

"Then what were you looking for?"

"You." The sincerity I can read in his face is almost too much to bear. I lean forward and rest the top of my head on his shoulder, taking deep breaths. I feel his arms snake around me, warming me.

"I'm really, really sorry." I mumble into his chest. He hugs me tighter. "What if I don't know if we're such a good idea?" I ask the question I've been afraid to ask.

"Then I'll convince you," he whispers, his lips brushing my earlobe. I break our little clinch then, so I can gauge how serious he is. He looks determined. I'm not wholly unmoved. He leans in to kiss me, but I place a hand to stop his advancing lips.

"I'm not going to undo all of the hard work you did prettying yourself up before I've even gotten any hero shots." I smile at the newly formed frown on his face, and place a consolatory kiss to the corner of his furrowed brow. "C'mon." I climb out of his lap and stand on the porch, considering the possibilities, while he regards me, sulkily. I yank him to his feet and smooth his hair back from his forehead. "So what do you want to be, heroic or tragic? Tragically heroic?" I pull out my camera and try to focus on his eyes. He turns to look into the lens.

"The first chance I get, I am totally telling your grandfather about us."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Apparently the frequency of my postings is not enough to whet your collective appetites. Well we can't have that, can we?**

**Chapter Twelve **

In the end, the photograph turned out nothing like Troy dreamt it would. The image Eric and I eventually agreed on was one I took as he sat on his porch steps, surveying his front yard with his back to me. It wasn't boastful, or hammed up. In it, Eric disappeared into his uniform, and his gaze implied a certain amount of hindsight, an echo of regret. I knew Eric did what he thought he had to, to save the lives of his fellow officers. I also knew that despite his attempts at joviality, he hadn't quite reconciled his actions yet with the kind of man he considered himself to be.

The truth of the matter was there was a man lying cold on a slab right now, and Eric had put him there. No one knew who he really was, or if he had a family out there somewhere. His initial reasons for staking out a remote campground with a small arsenal, and turning his gun on the police were unknown, and perplexing.

When I showed Troy the image, he rolled his eyes at first, but after a few seconds he simply nodded and sent me on my way.

Seven phone calls to Deputy Pryor over the course of the afternoon confirmed that the man's fingerprints and DNA hadn't had any hits yet on any of the usual databases, and his weapons were still being processed in the crime lab in Shreveport, and being compared to the slug they found embedded in Terry's heart. DNA matches from the pool of blood had a lower priority, and wouldn't be known for a few more days.

All in all, deadline was a mere four hours away, and I had nothing much to go on. Which may have explained why I found myself walking into Yankee Jim's a scant few hours after I had first left, a determined glint in my eye.

When I arrive, the leftover lunch crowd is starting to give way to the mid-afternoon lull, which usually comprises a few curious tourists milling around and retired old men looking to get a few beers in before going home to their wives for dinner. Dawn has the rapt attention of two gentlemen in Norcross uniforms at one end of the bar, so I duck into the kitchen, just in time to watch Lafayette tackle what appears to be a live crawfish as it makes one last desperate bid for freedom, skittering backwards along the kitchen tile.

"Interrupting anything?" I ask, leaning against the service door. Lafayette, looking more dishevelled than I've ever seen him, freezes, hands still clasped tightly around his wiggling prey, a look of tired triumph pasted on his face.

"Uh," he looks from me, to the struggling crustacean, back to me again. "Give Mama a second, would you?" I wave my hand in a _carry on _gesture, and he takes the opportunity to turn around and drop the crawfish into a steaming pot on the stove. "You is a dead, ugly ass mother now!" He shouts into the pot, before replacing the lid. He whirls back around then, one hand on his hips, lips pursed, the picture of perfect composure. "So what is it I can do for you today, sweet lips?"

"Any chance you know where Yankee Jim is holing himself up today?" I ask.

"Matter of fact, he done come in here not ten minutes ago, after a knife to cut up all them catfish he caught. He's out back."

"Thanks." I turn to head back into the adjacent hallway, when I reconsider. "Say, are you heading on over to see your Mama tomorrow, on your day off?"

"I is." His look is wary. I don't blame him.

"There's a nurse on staff at St. Stephens. Jesús. Cute Mexican guy. He's one of the good guys. If for any reason you are worried about your Mama, and the doctors don't want to know, he's the guy you want to speak to. Just tell him you're a friend."

"I uh, okay?" The unasked question lingers. I take a breath.

"It's just, ah, you and I might have more in common than simply a mutual appreciation of the way Deputy Northman fills out his blue jeans." His eyes meet mine briefly, and I can see he understands.

"Sure, Sookie," he gives me a significant nod, before he starts in on chopping up onions with what appears to be a bread knife. I let out a breath I didn't know was holding, and head for the hallway.

"Remember, Jesús!" I call over my shoulder.

* * *

Yankee Jim is sitting on a tree stump just outside the back door, arms caked in blood to the elbow, a cooler of ice laid before him, a bucket of whole fish on one side, and a bucket of bloody remnants on the other. I watch as he uses a pair of pliers to pull the skin off one of the fish in one swift motion, before throwing it on ice.

He looks over when he hears the screen door swing shut, and throws me a grin.

"I thought you said you didn't like the messy part?"

"I don't." I smile.

"Just thought you'd come and visit with me, then?" he asks, taking another whole fish and slicing it cleanly from top to bottom.

"Not exactly." He looks up to consider me, eyes squinting against the sun.

"Well you'd best take a seat, then." He motions towards the cluster of faded green lawn chairs we've left over by the dumpster for staff to sit on when they take their cigarette breaks. I oblige, and drag one over, averting my eyes as he clears the fishy entrails into the bloody bucket.

"Do you remember when JB DuRone asked me to the homecoming dance in tenth grade and before we could leave you told him that if he didn't have me home by the stroke of midnight, you had a shotgun and a shovel, and knew how to use them?" He chuckles.

"I remember it fondly. One of the many highlights of my young life. Why? Will I be needing to put them to use on the good Deputy?"

"Granddaddy," I chide. "This has nothing to do with Eric."

"Eric, is it now?" A look of unashamed delight breaks out over the old man's face.

"You're incorrigible," I mutter, rubbing my face in my hands.

"Thank you," he grins.

"_The reason" _I emphasise, "I ask about the shotgun and shovel, is I wonder if you would be able to spare them for a couple of hours."

"Are you sure the Deputy isn't in trouble?" I can't resist a smile at that.

"I'm sure."

"Uh huh. So why do you need to shoot and bury someone?" He puts down his knife, and looks genuinely curious.

"I'm following up on a couple of leads. I might need to dig a little. The gun would just be a safety net. People do keep cropping up dead in this here Parish, you know."

"Oh believe me, I know. Your father is so glad you've been staying nights here."

"Speaking of which, I saw Sophie-Anne Bellefleur today."

"Don't you mean Sophie-Anne _Leclerq_?" He drags out the surname in an over-the-top French accent.

"Yes, her. She wants to hold Terry's memorial here."

"I'm so glad she brought it up with the proprietor," he mutters darkly.

"I think she was hoping I'd put in a good word."

"If she asks me, I won't say no. Terry might've had his demons, but he was a good man. Quiet. Never caused nobody any trouble." I doubted Bud Dearborn felt that way any longer.

"So, the gun and the shovel? Think you can spare them?"

"Absolutely." I breathe a sigh of relief. "And I'll be there to supervise."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Contrary to local folklore, Yankee Jim is no fool. So when his only granddaughter sets out to literally dig up the truth, with possible killers on the loose, Yankee Jim will not stand idly by as she puts herself in harm's way."

"Why do you always insist on talking about yourself in the third person? And I'm not your only granddaughter. What about Hadley?"

"Hadley married an accountant. She moved to _Ohio_. She doesn't count." I snort. "Besides, you need someone to hold the shotgun while you dig." He gives me a wicked grin. "Just give me five minutes to clean up." He leans over to close the cooler of newly filleted fish, before leaning back and looking me directly in the eye. "And we shan't be telling your father about _any _of this."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: My semi-regular posting schedule was shot down by extenuating circumstances. And by that I mean I have been writing my dissertation, and am currently living in a hostel in New Zealand for that express purpose. But this is Chapter 13, so really, wasn't bad luck kinda inevitable? Sorry. I do aim to do better. You deserve better. Especially Eric fans. You (we) deserve something nice for all that you (we) have to put up with. Thanks if you stuck around. And onwards….**

**Chapter Thirteen**

In ten minutes, Yankee Jim is standing by my truck, shotgun slung over his shoulder, shovel in his hands, clad in black trousers and a black sweater, with a black ski mask obscuring his features. He looks like a ninja. An ungainly, elderly ninja.

"Why do you even own a ski mask?" I ask. "We live in Louisiana. Do you have burgeoning sideline as a mugger I wasn't aware of?" I pull the mask off of his head, and he winks at me.

"You never know when you need to put the fear of god into someone. Should the good Deputy put a toe out of line, it might come in handy." I take the shovel out of his hands, and throw it in the back of the truck, along with the ski mask.

"The good Deputy is none of your concern, and even if he was, he's a lawman who is armed and trained to shoot people in ski masks." Yankee Jim considers this for a moment.

"I may have to re-think my approach on that one."

"Atta boy." I open his door for him, and watch him clamber into the cab, balancing the gun carefully between his knees. He waits for me to climb into my side and start the engine before the line of enquiry starts.

"Where are we really going?"

"I'm not feeling the trust here, Grandaddy."

"I'm dressed like goddamnned Rambo and packing heat. I think I'm owed something." The man might have a point.

"We are looking for the body belonging to a mysterious puddle of blood." In a rare sign of stress, Yankee Jim squeezes the bridge of his nose with his fingers, before he leans over and shuts off the ignition, his hand covering my own. With his other hand, he brings my face close to his. I try to avoid his eyes, but don't quite make it.

"Darling, I am as much up for adventure as the next guy, hell, maybe even more so, but why is this our concern? We aren't the police." His stare is direct and his words are even.

"I'm the one who told Eric where he should be looking. I thought I could be helpful. That's why he was out at the reservoir in the first place. I'm the reason a man is dead and Eric is left with this goddawful weight on his shoulders."

"Honey, Eric did what he had to do, in the worst of circumstances. You are not responsible for what happened out there. What that man tried to do, is on him, and him alone."

"But I put them in the line of fire." Yankee Jim wipes a tear from my cheek I hadn't realised had fallen.

"And you're so eager to put yourself out there? Who knows who else is out there, packing god knows what?"

"I need to do something. Anything. Until something else happens, until we know more, nothing will ever get better around here. I need to-, we need to take back control of this." My look is pleading, and I can feel the old man growing uncomfortable. He sighs.

"One hour." He relents. "One hour, and if there is the first sign of any trouble, I'm bringing you right back here, and you can explain to your Daddy how you kidnapped your own Grandaddy and forced him to help you." I reach out a hand, and he takes it into his own. The handshake is slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I don't think I like it when you're all serious like this." I remark, as I restart the ignition.

"Honey," he says. "Yankee Jim likes it even less than you do."

* * *

The map I drew for Eric was still etched clearly in my mind, so it was simply a matter of following along. I'm not sure how many sites the sheriff's department managed to check out prior to the reservoir, and I wasn't brave enough to call Eric and ask, so I decided to start at the next site past the reservoir, out the back of the shooting range.

Officially, it's called the Renard Parish Shooting Range and Responsible Gun Owners' Club, but really it is just a narrow patch of land no one had a better use for, so they planted a few targets amongst the trees and constructed a hut made out of corrugated iron so they had somewhere to hang the big game trophies their wives wouldn't let them keep in their living rooms. It was also isolated, and relatively unused.

"Stay here," Yankee Jim orders as I pull up alongside the hut that acts as Gun Club HQ. I roll my eyes, but comply. He jumps out of the cab, gun instantly on his shoulder, poised for action. He does a cautionary sweep of the clearing and the surrounding trees, before venturing inside the hut. One second. Five seconds. Ten Seconds. Twenty Seconds. Thirty Seconds. Nothing.

"Grandaddy?" I ask, a little more panic to my voice than I am comfortable with. There is a loud metallic boom, and a flurry of shouts and noises, as well as the distinct sound of glass breaking.

"Grandaddy!?" In a split second, I am out of the truck and at the door of the hut, which now lies open. Yankee Jim is lying on the cement floor, his gun a few yards out of his reach. As I kneel down to examine him, I notice his forehead is bleeding. I take off my coat and press it to the wound, checking for other injuries. There doesn't seem to be any, and he is conscious, if dazed.

"Grandaddy?" I say again, the single word containing all of the questions I don't have time to ask. He doesn't reply, just kind of moans softly, his eyes fixed on the window in the wall opposite. For the first time, I notice that the window is broken, and bears the unmistakeable signs of having someone gone through it not long ago, in great haste. The edges are coated in blood, and part of a white t-shirt is caught on the shards. I take a few more seconds to examine the rest of the room, and all of the pieces fall into place.

In the corner of the room, underneath the mounted head of a particularly ugly boar, a sleeping bag lay haphazardly on the floor with food trash lying about, and a lantern that has been kicked over. Someone has been staying here, for a while it seems. And when confronted with a bar owner with a loaded rifle, their first instinct, whilst cornered, was to charge and make a quick getaway through the nearest exit. Or, sort of exit. This tells me two things. Firstly, the guy isn't local. Yankee Jim is a local treasure. Even waving around a shotgun, he isn't particularly scary to those that know him. Secondly, he clearly had something to hide. Jumping out of a closed window is a pretty painful exercise. You have to be pretty desperate. Ergo, not local. Trouble. And I let someone I care about walk right into the middle of it. Again. God dammit.

I remove my jacket from Yankee Jim's face, and am relieved to see the bleeding has slowed. Just a bump and a graze, probably. "How many fingers am I holding up?" I ask the old man, when his eyes seem to have regained a little focus.

"A lot more than you're gonna have when your father is through with you." He laughs in a maniacal way that I don't like.

"Did you get a good look at the guy?"

"He had crazy eyes." The voice is dazed, and I can tell not everything is quite okay.

"Was he armed?"

"Crazy eyes."

"Grandaddy! Was he armed?"

"I don't… I don't think so. Caught him unawares." He takes a moment to examine the predicament he has found himself in. "Obviously."

I nod, but I'm still not game enough to peek outside. I have images of strangers with AK-47s standing outside the door. He could have a cache outside, a vehicle, a friend. I fumble around in my jeans pocket for my phone. Two bars. I'll have to risk it.

The call drops out the first time I try. The second time, it goes to message bank. Typical. I try a different tack.

"Yo, this is Dan the Man!"

"Hi Daniel, it's Sookie Stackhouse."

"Sookie? Well what is it I can do for you today, little lady?"

"Do you think you can get a message to Kevin Pryor without Donna hearing about it? His phone is switched off."

"He's in a taskforce meeting with the boss man and all those police they brought it from Shreveport. I don't think I should interrupt-"

"Daniel. I'm at the Gun Club. We just found a stranger sleeping rough out here. He attacked my grandfather and now he is outside. We don't know if he is coming back. But right now, we know he is close."

"Is Yankee Jim okay?"

"Maybe. Daniel. Just get some people out here. Now."

"Sure thing." For a second I think he has hung up, but I soon hear the sounds of frenzied activity in the background.

"Are you still there, Ms Stackhouse?" The voice is cool and calm, and completely unexpected.

"Sheriff?"

"Yes. Ms Stackhouse, are you armed?" Clutching the phone tightly to my ear, I crawl across to where my grandfather's shotgun lay, scamper back to my original position by my grandfather, drawing it to me.

"Yes."

"Know how to fire a gun?"

"No." It's muffled, but I can hear Bud Dearborn cursing on the other end.

"I need you to act like you can, alright? Keep your weapon close. If you see anyone, draw it and keep it on them. Stall for time. We have people on their way, okay?"

"Okay." I hug the gun a little tighter to me.

"You can't hold the gun and talk on the phone. Is Yankee Jim conscious? Can I talk to him?"

"He seems a little out of it."

"You need two hands on that gun. Pass him the phone, Sookie." Reluctantly, I do. Yankee Jim fumbles for a second, but eventually gets a good grip on it.

"Here's Yankee Jim!," he answers, the same way he does at the bar. I watch him nod solemnly into the speaker, as though Bud Dearborn can see him.

"Yessir!" He exclaims. "Crazy eyes. Big crazy eyes." I flinch at the woozy tone of his words, until I hear the sound of a branch snapping outside, near the broken window.

"He's outside," I whisper, turning the gun to face the window. Yankee Jim looks ready to exclaim something over the phone, but I knock it from his hands, and make a frantic shushing motion. It's then that I hear the unmistakeably sound of boots on broken glass, and I feel Yankee Jim go rigid beside me.


End file.
